The streets resound
and the bums are deluged
their private shamble of crooked street
lost in the migration of hot dog wrappers
the luxury of living so close
to the parking lot of the tennis stadium
just now letting out a woman
in a summer’s snow of white
telling her daughter
not to throw out, but wrap
her unfinished half of a hot dog
“so the trash pickers won’t eat it”
and I wonder
what disease does her daughter have
that she is protecting the bums from