Cold tea and sprouts

by John Smallshaw

The rain drops blot me up,
like a man of tissue
I break into folds to
shred upon the street.

Slicked with the grease and the oils of the day
and the wind pays no heed to me,
stabbing me,
micro knife cuts on the cardboard
life that I lead.

I should be in a 'glossy',
not fussy which one,
entombed in a magazine
for someone to dream on.

Down along the broadway
the pipes play a tune,
some band from Scotland,
the raindrops still blot
me up.

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