Junky

he sits in the
sparkle of the drizzle,
cross-legged and rigid
holding a half smoked cigarette.
Eyes unfocused
like half shut slats.

He’s still,
At peace with his pulse,
At rest in a private universe,
His hair is wet with grease and rain,
His hands grubby with the muck
Of forgotten pain.

He’s alone
With only his old rug
His cold arse
And the pennies in his hat.
The noise convulses around him.
He is perfect.