i fall asleep
on the subway
in my threadbare jeans,

in my well-worn
for five days jeans
with nothing in the pockets.

but they always find something
to take away from me,

a piece of my soul
snipped and shoved behind
a lover in a locket,

a sea shanty
for a child in the sick bay
of a saint hospital
constructed in glassy white.

my wallet is empty
and my coffee can of paintbrushes
is at home.

all that remains
are the hunger pains
and the stains of blue and grey
on my fingers.

they tremble in my sleep.

i hope they know
i'm going though
my picasso blue period,

tasting blueberries
on the flesh of the canvas,

paintbrushes filling in a fresh wound.

while i miss my stop
i dream of bodies made of squares
like windows letting in sunlight

but when i wake
all that remains

are the bored children
and the bored man
clinging to his newspaper

and women crocheting
dirty lace doilies

and the blind man
in the corner
with his
blue jeans
on.