the start of a catalogue

in all of us, the waking world, we sing with the sweet
angelic stammering of the poor , old, lonely Spanish bum
sitting on oak bench in the bomb of golden dawn and the
busy pepper-blue suit swinging mahogany leather briefcase
before noon as a device of Time and the faithful little Italian
fella’ stacking newspapers for the morning clientele in the backroom
of his convenient shop and for the warm mother awake boiling
bottles above the steam of hot steel pot rubbing bags of ice on
the big bruises beneath her eyes and public bus operator too late
too care