Across from Bryant Park,
at the corner of 43rd and 6th,
underneath several layers
of filth, a man, past all cares.
Alone in an altered reality,
his possessions in a cart,
he shuffles back and forth,
unheard, shoving his net worth.
Skirting his noisome presence,
deaf to empty threats,
I walk past, at a steady pace,
indifference masks my face.
A mask that carefully conceals,
terror at this Russian roulette:
Fleeting fortunes, sighs of relief,
and cart-borne lifetimes of grief.