Chain-Link Fence

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.

.