Floating bait

they walk in the morning with
hunched bodies in thin supermarket cloths,
barely in control of their shivers;
their heads full of waning delirium.

the frosty air makes them edgy, their movements
are floundering, like a broken record idly
wheeling past the production of any sound.
their blunt eyes and sordid smiles hint on dead
souls stamped with the rictus of idiocy.

the glory of dawn ignites and shames the waste of
consumerist barracks and temples of intoxication,
while weeds between cracks, spilled leaves victim to
seasonal tides and guardians of lanes revel in
melancholic dignity before the bustling writhing traffic
sinks them back in the clouded background.

now they loiter in rank smut corners
of subways, pentices and against lamp posts,
at home in wafts of acrid urine, bakkeries of
vomit and stacks of variegated dumping, their dialogues
unfold in a series of grunts, monosyllables and shouts,
interspersed with hoarse laughter.

they glean the world with muted anger and
racy hunger; little conspiracies are forged while
the city finally wakes up.
leaving their den, greetings exchanged,they spit left and right
in contempt and slither away to their nests
til nightfall spawns them back on the street.

if i shot one to kill,
would anyone miss them for real?