“jars of bugs” by Bogdan Dragos

he rides a rusty bike
in the cold
night

sliding like a
fish
from alley to alley.

He’s going up
the hill again.

All he’s got on him
besides
his clothes
and the bike
is a thermos filled with
coffee he got from
the vending machine
at the mall,

coffee bought with
money earned
from a day’s work of
standing by the traffic lights
at the intersection,
waiting for them to turn
red
and offering to wash
someone’s windshield.

Once on top of the
hill
he leaves the bike at
the base
of the water tower
and climbs the cold
iron ladder.

There’s no one to stop him
at this time.

He sits down
cross-legged

opens the thermos and pours
the coffee into
the cup part

and sips.

Ahead of him
the city sleeps.

Only a lone light shines
here and there
in some…