he keeps his money
a few dollars
inside a paper bag, in his front pocket
sanitary reasons
his teeth look nice
he is always with odor
no eyelets, on his shoes
no zipper
no back pocket, on jeans
no belt, because they have buckles
one never knows, what one can catch
from copper or brass
only a piece of string
twine, to hold up his disinfected jeans
‘mad sammy’ they call him
apparently, there’s no control
over the singing that he hears
inside his very private world
some may welcome the day
when they too can travel
to where the noise vanishes
from this land, long forsaken
by the creators and the wanderers
there is no easy entry
money, deejay and pants
remain optional