The Dancing Bums

Far into the sleep of working people
there are bums, outside, under trees,
wavering in the locked out streets
or staring at their single questions
like big battered moths.
Sometimes, on the edge of the park
or just beyond the reach of hope,
one of them will rise up, and dance
unobserved in his own emptiness,
a bad dream traveling across what we wish for
when everything is possible.