Avant-Garde

The crippled man limped
to his bed, the bench
that was broken in the middle.
From the front, it had a mouth
that beckoned him to rest
on top of its lower lip.
It had a black trash dispenser
for an eye, and its nose was missing.
And yet, it was his closest companion.
The crippled man was altered by
the layers of dirt crawling on his skin,
and unraveling noodles of thread
coming from the tears on his clothes
that simply fulfilled the purpose of
covering his body at night
when his temperature suppressed itself
down to a lower level.
He smiled as he laid down,
happy to be supported
by a friend.