just another bum,
he stands every day
at the highway t-junction,
same baggy clothes,
head bowed,
wizened, beard-spouting face,
empty hand in palm.
in a perfectly timed meeting,
he lifts his chin
and his carolina blues
assault you
through the mercedes windscreen.


De Jackson is hosting the bar at dVerse and asks us to compose a Quadrille, a poem of exactly 44 words, using the word BUM.