One, Another, The Last

one sleeps sitting,
the suit was teeth white
long before it was his—
long before the thirsty floors
of the subway filled it like a canvas
with the murky insignias
of the underground

another trudges stacks of stairs
black bags in tow, dark bulging tail—
innumerable cans and shrapnel,
each crushed beneath a different
heel in the red gutters of chinatown-
a nickel each at the end of the line

the last is hunched on a plastic pail
harmonica hands, singing to clouds
i know all of you can see me,
i know you hear my voice.
saying stop pretending i don’t exist,
as pools of tourists begin to collect
at the corners, signals turning
to wash them all away again