like the monument
of a conqueror
high on horse
he slumps stoned
inside his soft
bag of dreams
while the tenement
steps on which he sits
spiral to a star-smashed
skylight somewhere
on the tarpaper roof.
Following the thread,
he sees paradise
thru the eye of his needle
pried wide enough
to pull him thru
another night darker than
the reverse side of the moon.
But dawn draws him
white as marble
thru raw hallways that lead
down past laughing graffiti
and odors of frying smoke
to the basement furnace.