Living in a right-angled triangle,
unusable where the roof touched the ground,
and cold where the air rises double height.
Clear plastic polygons, like insect eyes,
protrude; temporary conservatory
of cheap umbrellas. Might keep off some rain.
And the bridge over troubled person, stretches
out over the water, over the homeless,
the man with the fold-up life, the river
lapping beneath the concrete base where he
unfurls the sleeping bag, the umbrellas
the choice, or simply the lack of options.