justinius on the riverbank

i do not know if the stories
are true. plausibility
writes itself in his sad sorries
their flowering futility

sheltered, perhaps, by a borrowed tarp
at the river's edge.  a hatchet
and a cell phone complete the art
of living homeless, unattached.

but just as true could be the scene
where bored and servant to my meme
he sits at home, like every day
dealing blame   cards with  donkey bray

precision, piercing mom's ears while
skirting my derision, weavng
adventures of escape in style
criminalized, pushed  to leaving.


does he play on my sympathy
parade his scars,  pain's memories?
expect  my guillibility?
live agoraphobic glories?

 embers, he says, are the warmest
part of the fire.  phone has one bar
  left. my blanket's in the pampas.
she didn't give me back the car.