Frank

It's not often
that I'm awoken by my screaming wife
as I peel my hungover face
from the pillow
my sticky tongue off the floor
only to look out my window
to find a homeless man
sleeping in my backyard
curled up next to a fallen dead tree.

Bloody from his own sullied ways
lost in the brush
far from home,
from anything familiar
a stampede of sadness in his eyes
carrying only a bag of frozen pizzas
and little memory
of his past
or his drowning future.

Frank shakes the crusted leaves
off his chipped knees
the blood from his old wrists
the dirt off his crooked teeth
and together we ride around town
both beat to shit
exhausted by life
torn open from the long night
and go in search
of anything recognizable.