Cold Night Air

I watch their swelling bodies,
bleeding under blankets
in the shadows of buildings,
warp in their sickness.
Trash cans covered in purple
paint knocked over and spilled out
into piles all around.
Half eaten apples and watermelon
rinds crawled over by ants and beetles
searching for a sweetness almost gone.
A broken water fountain dented in
but humming on by the brick bathroom
at the center of the park
where the tired roll suitcases
and carry pillows, and pick at
ever growing surfaces of scabs.
Biblical namesakes adorn the neon
signs on the outside
of the few remaining shelters,
like Ignatius or Mathew, and the ones
they turn away walk off down
the middle of the road until they’re mixed up
in the headlights casting darkness on the neighborhood that only lasts for seconds
then it fades.