half-decayed heap of man and sorrow Presses palms and fingertips too shriveled and returned to dust to leave any print on the window
looks out at work tarring roofs and work digging graves and work welding chain link fence
in a torn blue collar shirt and the fields and the fields and the fields and the trees and the birds and the road and the road and the trees and the birds
his poverty smiles in wonder and he works his lips over the pane whispers to the one he drove with a fist through the wall in the family room
no moisture left in his holy body his cheek slides smoothly down the glass his head falls through the hands of the son who let him down at the end of his days
