Four Corners

They hide in dark spots, waiting to spit if I stop.
Sometimes I see their greasy boxes with clothes
draped over like shrines to the fallen. I recognize
the grainy cough and cover, sinking so far I need
a priest, even though I’ve never been catholic.

Father can’t help me if I don’t stop running
downtown at midnight, sharing the same streets
he tries to clean through prayers. If they catch me,
on the corner, they can have me, I say as cocky
as the stacked building I’m passing. I spit,

choking on night air, hollow and dry enough
to give me nose bleeds every winter but, still,
I continue to a place that’s even darker, more
unsafe. Then I close my eyes and circle,
until I’m too tired to know what I’ve done.