Wino

His head thrown back in a gesture of 
obscene joy
he stands on the corner and shouts
at something long ago lost
in the sky.

When it rains he remembers
	to dance
tapping in puddles the private rhythms
	the private music
his arms outstretched for balance
while he monitors in windows
his lithe reflection.

So, swaying and shouting
he swallows the days
letting the sun burn on
	without  him
letting the dance go on
	without  him
harassing the sky and stumbling
	whirling
the spirit finding exit the best way it can.