Missed By No One
by Odin Roark

Laboring through jet lag,
Manhattan’s summer heat
broiled the tourist’s insomniac nature,
driving him out onto Financial District streets
damp with humidity,
aromatized by pet droppings
and festooned with bar hoppers hurl-stew.

Repelled, he took a hard right onto Water Street,
only to run into one of the city’s hardcore destitute,
surreal precariousness curled in fetal comfort
beneath a bank’s palace-like doors,
an entryway into glimmering opal and blue glass
towering heavenward for the privileged.

He paused…

Not exactly a Michelangelo model, he thought.
The sleeping man’s bruised and dirt-caked hands
cupped his crotch protectively,
guarding the remaining manhood no one had taken...
yet.

A threadbare coat for all seasons
cradled his head of snarled hair,
a tangled mess akin to the exhausted chaos
of a Pollock painting,
while the open mouth murmured dreams
of someone no one remembered,
no one would miss.

A stretch limousine idled at the light,
its rear window slowly descending,
allowing a slightly used fine cigar
to arch through the air and alight beside the bare body.

As the out-of-towner looked on,
fate’s intuitive hand left its protective crotch-guard,
snatched the butt, tucked it beneath his pillow,
and breathed a coagulated sigh of contentment.

The uniformed driver glanced at the naked man,
then the tourist, shook his head
and eased the black icon down the walled perpetuity
of unmoved consciousness and denial,
while the rising sun would try once again
to provide the crestfallen with something beautiful.

The morning sun began breaking,
creating reflective shards of fractured pinnacles,
a daily illumination of wayward success and permanent discovery.

The tourist opened his Fodor’s guide,
thumbed through some pages,
looked again at the sleeping man,
tossed the guide in the trashcan
and sat down next to him.

He wasn’t sure why.