Bliss Sleeps

A kind of bliss sleeps
on a Bowery street smiling
toward Tuesday and a dishwashing dollar.

Curled, hands tucked into armpits,
sleeping an unworried sleep
bliss dreams

of all the world’s white
horses bridled and reined for
the ride home to banners and drums,

home where the bottles are full,
streetlights steady and all
the old chances lined up

as ready as duckpins.