I have a dream
he fusses in my arms.
I sooth him,
smoothing his black cornsilk hair with my hand,
he coos, smacking his lips.
I smile down at his carmel face and dancing eyes.
The call is just for a sick baby
I have been there a thousand times before,
yeah a thousand,
go fuck yourself.
Before you steal my shoes
without ever walking a step in them,
do the math.
4000 calls a year
24
years
But he isn’t a sick baby,
he’s a dying baby.
and as I round the corner in the tenement maze
of this filthy basement,
they shove him at my chest.
As every normal human would
I cradle him
grey
wet
cold
limp
It’s all wrong
but there isn’t time
the ambulance is minutes out
and he is gasping now.
2,3 breaths a minute
I grab his face
my hand so much bigger than his head
run my thumb across his tiny nose and perfect lips
pull open his jaw
make the mistake of looking into his hooded vacant brown eyes.
cover his nose and mouth with mine own and blow
no obstruction
and his little chest swells in my arms.
They get off you know. They somehow beat the murder rap. The humans,
that made him,
and then broke him.
The animals
that laid him at their altar to heroin,
that threw him away like so much trash.
They walked scott free.
Free to suck dick behind citco,
free to roll in their own dank filth.
Me?
I randomly taste the sour milk of his stomach in my mouth,
and wait for his visits in my dreams.
Drinkers with Writing Problems 
That got real, quick. Thank you for posting this.