those wax images of philanthropy
melting against the flames of the gutter
against the pains of another
Life
exposed in Kodachrome light
where a shadow is a threat
a murderer,
a cop waiting to increase your status
to page 2 of the Metro section

infamy
your nemesis, as anonymity comes in twenties
burnt to disguise
in forties, drank 'til Sunrise
in the rusted palms of six men bearing your weight
as if osmosis will forgive them for another day

he gave what he had...a premature epitaph
not recorded in granite, or soil
but in the hands of a stranger
that needed a hug

aren't we all strangers

-- Rob Dyer