A poem I wrote at a street festival while watching a young homeless man play frisbee.

————

Money monger gaze toward

amber-orange long locks, some

fall onto a patch of

backside hairs, and some

hang above rose-colored eyes that

look beyond a crimson cringed nose.

Drop on down

bawlin’ flaxen teeth, some

lost for a love of

sweet chances, but some

linger above a chin cleft that

unites paths before a butter breast plate.

Crease once and again-

melon meat belly, some

flesh faces airs of

dulcet liberties, and some

rest on teeter-tatter torn denim that

cradles amber-orange curly locks.

By Lisa Michel

From: United States