Bum
he’s folded against the urine-soaked wall
like a note left in the rain, head down,
greasy gray hair a bad luck charm
I want
to turn away
so that I don’t fall into the hole he fell in
ambiguity circles his head like a fly
he is a bomb that could explode
a body on a stretcher
decorated with flashing lights
red and blue
he is me
he is you
he is
a warning from rich men with guns:
don’t let go your ladder’s rung
This poem by Mike Wilson recently appeared in Hitchlit Review, Vol. 3, Issue 2, Autumn 2020
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