Poetry, I thought, is far removed
From this man I see every day,
Bearded redhead sitting on a bench
Staring into space, hunched over
Outside Gregg’s hurried munching
Of something given to him.
This man has it all (or nothing)
And he tells and retells the story of loss
Plainly, sincerely, unapologetically.
He does what he does and
Where and how does he sleep at night?
Is there a light nearby?
I’ve seen him share the bench with others,
Perhaps a fellow homeless friend
Smoking a cigarette angled away,
Their knees never touching and yet
Shoulders so relaxed
And free –
Yes the pains of living
Have soldered skin and sinew into blaring
Expressions of saintliness.
Such a man makes immortal
The battles in one’s mind
And a bloody reality that flashes by.
