Rotting Fruit and Corpse

The man at the bottom of the stairs Smells like rotting fruit and corpse Maybe it’s because he juggles mangoes While reading the newspaper Clipping his toenails and saying he’s a realtor Dropping the mangoes one by one until They leave a sticky red-ant-trail across the marbled floor Of the Vatican As he opens his mouth to swallow the Sistine His last gold tooth falls out Wrecked, Disappointed He slumps Shoulders heavy with darkness and an abundance of stars Melting away but still singing like rain His too big head twists downward Knocking Knocking Knocking Against his chest in a tribal hymn Then With sun gathering around his face like flies That gently pry nectarsweet from fingertips, He pulls down his pants And begins To pee in the corner