under the hat, a young face

Great big hands cracked and caked in excrementsunk so low in your seat, neck weighed down with the noose you see
instead of the world
hanging empty around you
I’m surprised when your face lifts for a moment
and under the hat, a young face
You have all your clothes on, all your things with you
All the baggage of America 
And none of the belongings
A watch, old plastic band hangs
on your wrist, stopped
I wonder if it still runs
is it for After. Homelessness.
or from Before 
I don’t know how far back
you’d have to go
Centuries undoubtedly
in your hands, a precious tube
almost used up icy hot
you wake up occasionally 
and smear it somewhere 
under the many layers
grooving to a silent pleasure
the pleasure of pleasure at all
I want to tell you
and I don’t want to tell you
it’s just menthol
cooling you
but not healing you
that even your relief is counterfeit 

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