Lost in time only steps from his home, doomed 

to wait forever, first in friendless line

for that hot lunch, free CD; only these

small round Band-Aids to help him feel alone 

through the dry-eyed dream of return. Rightly,

the connective tissue of collective 

concern and hand-me-down fraternity 

curled up like blueprints; smiles in service

of propped bonds reached imaginary heights

and relaxed into grimaces nightly. 

Doomed. In the shade of a kitchen table 

littered with bills he makes wishes on a 

round-tipped star, when he’s drunk enough to care

or there's no such thing as a time machine.