Manna, Treacherous Sky

    Poor chap, that tramp —
his beauty
       confiscated
         by filth;

  Left to pray mindless
    ly in the gutter,
      in arrears
         to the street;

At church for his tea-and-two-slices
   his offering but
           a burned-up blade
     of grass and
             still he prayed;

  O, heaven, my galoshes
    are glummed,
   my ears beaten
             by duns;

  O, keep me,
      even though —