I talk to him almost every day
as he goes about his routine.
He tells me that 42 empty beer
cans will buy a bottle of wine.
For his age, he is adroit at climbing
into a dumpster, plastic bag in hand.
His only possession, a battered grocery
cart. He lives under the bridge on 7th Steet.
He claims he graduated from the local
University with a degree in chemistry.
He started drinking when his new bride
ran off with another man.
I give him a couple of bucks on special
occasions. He’s effusive with his thanks.
The drink demons owns him. He can’t
break the cycle. As I am heading home,
I see him passed out in an alley.