A bum’s birthday is a solitary celebration, not joyful
like a junkie’s bright balloons.
Alone in a broken phone booth, he dreams it’s a red
pagoda.
A.W.O.L. from Nam, he grasps his wine bottle and
feels the tight green silk
On the real dolls he danced with.
The devil is near but he has a cell phone. A hooker
steps in to check the coin return.
In blissful oblivion, the bum curled up in the red
pavilion of memory
And sleeps off another rotation around the sun.
His drink, a precious black-out shade, obliterates the
light of his special day.
He is feted in the dark movie of past pagodas, without
candles.
Despair, Disillusionment, Dissipation, Addiction
Dwelling in the past
Escapism, take refuge in dreams