Monday, March 9, 2015

Poem #61

He crossed the street to my left
His gait slow but steady
with an improvised walking stick
His rumpled clothes marked him
The scruffy beard, the shaggy gray hair
The hand on the stick was bare
But the other wore a black knit glove
the fingers empty and flapping
He has twins all over our city
This prisoner released
from the jungles of my youth

He doesn't see me
Cocooned as I am in my Honda Civic
He chews on a half-smoked cheroot
and moves on down the sidewalk

Some of us worry
about the physical circumstances
of these public servants
The indignity of sleeping in the streets
Shitting in the bushes
But what of the mind
the inner life of this man?
What would I think about
if I had nowhere to  go
day after day
no one to see
nothing to do

No comments: