down lower Queen St

at the quarter century

a whole tribe of

Vladimirs and Estragons 
who’ve given up on Godot

confront passersby

instead with their

incurable obduracy
drab garb leavened

by the occasional

windfall fluoro vest

or luminous shoes
shopping trolleys heaped

with sordid bedding

and the disjecta membra

of terminal capitalism
some are here by choice

others by destiny

where decisions not always

theirs have channelled them
in the larger scheme

their purpose is to warn

and steer everybody else

into mortgaged durance
sliding the lid back

off the abyss

one step outside the steady

course might land you in