His hands were cold
that much was clear
his grey fingers stiff
knuckles poking out of frazzled fabric.
His corner of the world
was one of concrete
his soles raw from cold cobblestones
(yet all he saw was shoes.)
It did not take a storyteller
to piece his together
A tale of being unwanted,
than the rest.
By the time I had the wits
to bring a pair of laid-off shoes
all trace of him was gone.
If no one is willing to give a helping hand
if no one gives a damn
What is going on?
Why does he keep at his game?
Why ask for food, why get up, why seek a speck of warmth?
Why not bow out from the stage of life?
The answer to everyone’s riddle is there
in his rags, his unkempt mane, his bruised and scarred arms.
The answer to everyone’s riddle is this:
Because – because! there is