Near the Underbelly of the Viaduct

There lived a man who slammed enclosure.

Clothed in shorn dark and clear plastic 

His lachrymose eyes peeked through gray

Wintery darkness the only proof 

He was still alert to the blend of himself 

And his surroundings seen only as a drive-

By flash as cars holding the attention of drivers

Whizzed past this clot of being that would not

Subside, noticed or unnoticed, no matter

What clock point on the wrists or showing

On the face of the phones of riders or 

Drivers alone roving within their near homes 

Unlike his own ad hoc shelter of open air.