In the Mornings

In the mornings,

the dark blue van

That I sleep in

is splattered

with pigeon shit

Like the gray

speckled age

in my hair.

I open the door

and step out,

and stretch

and piss

Noting the

sticky

dried sweat on

My chest ,

back, and arms,

and smoke

a cigarette.

Only then do I

try and gather up

The hand written pages

and 24 oz. beer cans

That litter the front

of my rolling blue home.

I don't recycle the empties.

I don't rewrite the poems.

They are what they are.

In the mornings I read

what I've written down drunk

and then I walk

to the Salvation Army and eat breakfast.