Patio Stones

His gaze never travels
the shortest distance between two points,
shoulders slink permanently
down ladder rung sides.
He answers to a name,
but usually “hey you”,
a day-labor check for beer and anonymity.
Dreams dulled with the shine
on the last good pair of shoes he owned,
memories are midnight hooligans
rolling his prostrate bones for sleep.
He’s multiplied in geometric progression
building every city’s future.
We walk on their backs
like gray, octagonal, patio-stones
kicking dirt in the cracks.