A prelude to a question... Did Punch write a poem dedicated to his new neighbors?

Punch holds his cellphone in his hand

Dedicated to my new neighbors

While a thundering sun rises slowly over a skyline, a day begins, seen from a distance, a rundown ancient abode surrounded by police impounds. Dreams screeching to a halt and hauled away for the pleasant fee of fifty dollars a day. My home, morning dressing for mourning, knowledge first hand, this abode knows the secrets, damages and plans of those who dwell within slowly roasted and stoned.. Let them without sin cast stones first. We are loathsome, only loitering, crowded down where only being lonesome is worse...

A neighbor’s ever fainter manners prove only eternally entertaining. Mr. Punch is himself no martyr, being of seedy late night character, eyes widening, dimwitted he, his reflection looming more frightening then anything on the second floor hidden.. He is safe amid these outcasts from dignity, those lost from sympathy, them whom shame knows no name, those picking through their arms, those needing a bath, looking for where laughter is spoken, whilst jokes land silently bereft of punch lines...

Aimless people again practicing their aim, bare knuckled fighters wondering where they lost their lighter, afterlife livers, those who enter a room casually playing with a switchblade knife...

Junkies concealing little monkeys, armed with keys and canisters hissing deep within their strange pockets, mingling with curtailed freedom amid the chump change,, digging through missing keys that upon a time before opened the children’s golden lockets, the myriad of little ones sired left abandoned and unvisited.

Meanwhile what became of those grown tall? They became these users and abusers silently sitting in the bloom of late afternoon, meticulously abusing their spoons. Those unkempt and the swept up miscreants together, dreaming scantily until an approaching slant of the early evening has them content with yesterday’s plans undemanding. Patent pending plans.

Dainty saints and waylaid painters sadly casting sideways glances for the fiery faces in the paintings. Spirits appear in sidewalks with eyes that follow movement. If they did a dance of impending doom, would you see them? Spirit bodies made solid etched in cracks on sidewalks well heeled. Concrete beings, do you see them? “This is not eternity” the city seems to whisper. Are pleas heard? Photographers slowly wasting beneath the four corner frames...

And the lovers and dreamers who once kept soundly to each others schemes now sit without a sound.. for a word has no value; a babbling man speaks for hours using only verbs with nary a noun… he is sadly, a man…

A man of decidingly lesser renown

a man of decidingly lesser renown

There is story told of folks who were never to anyone fond , to no one sweetness, hold nowhere nothings, zero matter, emptiness to place a bond upon and those who misplaced the last chance loans which had kept them barely clutching to that which they jones.. conscious slowly stone...

To Punch the loss of a cellphone is worse then any throes that a junkie all too well knows..Punch looks upon his phone as music begins to bask, suddenly a question appears that of his friends he asks..