Drunk leans against the smooth wire diamonds
of a chain-link fence to which his knuckles
clutch to keep his body vertical: his eyes
imbibe the locked-up empty lot – as drab a blot
as late November can create of a forgotten
city plot, all sodden grayish brown.
He leers out at two plumped-up pigeons squatting
on the cracked concrete: “Yo! Sweet mamas!
Lookin’ fine!” Pigeons blink, don’t seem to mind.