The ash burns brighter down here,

Bringing moths and mayflies down below,

Holding thick its sense of smoke, it's burnt-toast smell.

The ash burns brighter down here,

Fueled by gases from leftover foods and goods,

Leftover bits of life and death and everything

Everything in between.

Sometimes the gas chokes out the light,

Leaving only a grey halo around that hole

Until it settles back into the air,

Onto the ground,

Over his shoulders

Like a cold gray cloak.

The patron saint of the brokenhearted,

The forgotten,


Not ugly,

Simply undesirable,

Hiding away from the refuse of the world

In a world of refuse.

To see him is to face abandonment,

Old eyes ringed in dirt and exhaustion

Rolling amidst the squalor of the left behind.

To him, all is equally precious.

The unwanted is treasure,

The trash is a present from Up There,

And the moths are his family,

His friends,

His subjects.

Crawling across broken glass to take a breath of hot, poisoned air

Dipping his fingers in unmentionables as if they were the finest paints,

Hands out and raised,

Waiting for the Giving to commence.

At least it's better than nothing.