of bums and hobos,
amid the traffic and the
Four or five homeless
huddled together under the
concrete support pillars
of the highway overhead,
sharing a pizza.
They were all sweating
from the summer heat and
the compacted convection oven
of living under and around the
roar of traffic.
They smelled like vinegar and
fish, but they didn’t seem to
know. They ate like it was a
urban picnic, in one of their
They smoke and ate and spoke
of the days without care, of the easy life,
when it wasn’t this hard, to get
pizza, but pizzeria’s don’t deliver
to the underpass.
The Saturday night traffic sped by them,
kicking up the road dirt and sludge,
but the bums and homeless simply
carried on, without barely a notice
of the perversion of it all.
It wasn’t that they were happy,
it wasn’t that they were miserable,
it’s just that they were there, in that space,
eating pizza from a cardboard box.
It was an Underpass pizza party,
covered in hardship,
but not buried