The Working Late Man in a Grey Summer Suit
alan catlin
No one knows how he could have ended up
down there, two long flights from where he
should have been, a father of six kids, ten
years old and younger, not robbed or assualted,
a cab ride away from home, body blending into
concrete beneath the Lynbrook B track,
the pigeons rutting above him in the craked
spaces between portals, staining the sidewalks,
the parked cars with their white marks;
the damp smell of urine, of grille fried White Castle
hamburger meat, grease stained french fried
containers and Do Not Litter Boxes, among the
garbage, the working late man in a grey summer
suit with a crushed skull, broken glasses, is
buried on page 19 of a Long Island Daily Press.
