How Mark Elsbury became John Doe

The first inkling of his merry little doom
was in the spittle gently hacked from the right lung
of that nameless man on the corner of Summer Street

The irony of his cold there in the summeriest of suns
was lost on professionals as they stepped over him
twice foraging for a simple meal to break their day in two.

The last matter to be decided was not revealed until sunset
as he waited on the burnt grass of Boston Common
wrapped in the scratched comfort of a drab wool blanket.

The meal was every-Friday's finest half-cooked chicken,
wrinkled grape tomatos, wilted romaine lettuce
and just a hint of a light oil foreshadowing his cheap embalming.