coughing up ipecac memories

it was closing in on winter
the air had chilled the baron streets days before
those fortunate enough to clamber indoors had done so by now
the rest fought valiantly over steam vents in sidewalks

i helped a traveler afford to feed his dog
now i was broke and hungry
not a familiar face in the sea of commuting sycophants
starched and pressed and pleated making a b-line to the perfect job miles above the filthy street corner refugees

i don't know what it is to be home