El Chucharro by Dave Iasevoli

He stands close to seven feet tall, hundreds of pounds
heavy, like a furnace he shuffles, loud
down Seventh Avenue, towards the gates of the Holland Tunnel
where he disappears for months—now
here he walks again, with cardboard sign
around his neck like it says used, discount.
He looks straight ahead, level, downtown,

and stands as thick as virgin forest, his calves
as big around as furniture, swollen through pants legs,
and yet he walks as clean as an orange, a savage
who manages to groom himself, to continue his trek
along the avenue of slammed-shut restaurants,
to gather the change we spare, and try to repair
the sores all over his skin, whipped black.