That Siren (ROUND 3)

Let's workshop this poem about the struggles of a homeless drunk who, caught in a cycle of despair, finds comforting empowerment in the self-deception that he is just recharging his explosive energies

scent of the day: Vi Et Armis, by BeauFort London (a spicey and smokey perfume based on the East India Company’s opium trade)

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That Siren

Hoof polish chipped like a teen cutter, leg soaked 
(a nearby drunk ready to growl down accusation)—
the tourist carriage clops off from its corner break.

Crumpled into marble façade, camo sleeves torn
into a vest—he jingles his cup: neon lies, sleazoid
eyes, glinting gluttony through Macy’s perfume.

He has to piss bad again from that old thought
pausing time, that easy boost: I’m just gathering 
fuel here—that siren making here such a home.

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