Bella Vista


Is he sleeping now in his chair by the alley?

Is he passed out cold

with a warm beer can in his hand?

He’s in the open air where strangers walk idly chatting

drunk like him at 2 am,

but not yet at the bottom of everything.

His fingers calloused.

His lips bleed.

His hair has turned to dread.

And his eyes,

oh what his eyes have seen.

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