Of course he lives alone in the dark chill
of a leaky shack at the edge of a swamp
they are forever promising to drain.
Days, he patrols the scrap laneways
and bottle alleys connecting the town’s
sleepy streets; here playing the part
of a half-wit, there presenting himself
as a shrewd local character. His life
of malnutrition, dirt and discomfort
is his own choice. He has tried living
at the shelter, but could not take the routine
and the presence of others. Having started
out with high ambitions, he worked
his way down through booze, card games,
petty theft, bungled burglary and jail-time
that restored his appreciation
for swamp life and the company of rats.
And though he has never managed
to get hold of money, he often thinks
about it, and about what he might do
with his elusive fortune. Riches arrive
in his dreams too, and so vividly,
that in the blessed moment
when he wakes, he is convinced
that the heavy drops spilling into
the brittle hollows of his beaten face
are a gift from some lavish pearl goddess.