The Throw - II

Scrap of paper
blowing in the wind
crumpled, scarred
the writing dimmed
yet resonant with ink
still running.

Paper man of substance,
hidden lines
scattered on a page
of scraps, of
jottings, notes crossed, recrossed,
scrunched in the hand
yet whole - the man
alive but barely
sane, the blowing game
of city lights and
dirty streets -
a life in weeks
accumulating acts
like scraps of paper waste tossed
into the wind.

Flushed face
bitten hands
sturdy gait
shuttered mind -
those blue 
eyes reading clear
the writing on the wall.

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