A DIFFERENT TRACK
Posted: Sun Jan 08, 2012 8:51 am
A DIFFERENT TRACK
He lives in empty boxes in the shadows of tall buildings
under the bridge where disconnected horns play loud endless tunes.
His peripheral vision heightened by the need for constant vigilance
from predators and stalkers and others with life in ruins.
He sometimes ventures to the park to sit and watch the people
in their finely coloured clothing, on their night out in the town
or he strums familiar melodies, busking for coins thrown carelessly
night after night – low level help – for one who’s out and down.
On colder nights he goes and sits out at the sidewalk café
where body odour is less noticed as it mingles with diesel fumes
The chuckling percolator drips its black and fragrant liquid
into a thick white china mug. He waits and then consumes.
And for a moment, at first glance he’s just like everybody else
enjoying coffee and cake –with their faces painted green
from the flashing neon sign that dispenses a splash of colour
to the dingy grimy sidewalks of a soulless city scene.
But he’s not – his clothes are grimy – and his boots are very worn.
Take a minute and chat with him, in his eyes you’ll see despair;
and his jacket if you look close you will notice it is torn.
He’s a bloke you may pass everyday and yet not know he’s there.
Coffee finished, slow he rises, ventures out onto the street
heading back towards the walls of his palatial cardboard home.
The range of his shadow stretches tall – passes ghost like ‘cross a billboard
advertising a pore-tightening cream and facial cleansing foam.
And is he friend of my enemy or enemy of my friend?
Or is he a social outcast - one whose fallen through the cracks
of a society that’s blinded by its own greed and indifference?
He is all of these, but still a man. He just walks different tracks.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
He lives in empty boxes in the shadows of tall buildings
under the bridge where disconnected horns play loud endless tunes.
His peripheral vision heightened by the need for constant vigilance
from predators and stalkers and others with life in ruins.
He sometimes ventures to the park to sit and watch the people
in their finely coloured clothing, on their night out in the town
or he strums familiar melodies, busking for coins thrown carelessly
night after night – low level help – for one who’s out and down.
On colder nights he goes and sits out at the sidewalk café
where body odour is less noticed as it mingles with diesel fumes
The chuckling percolator drips its black and fragrant liquid
into a thick white china mug. He waits and then consumes.
And for a moment, at first glance he’s just like everybody else
enjoying coffee and cake –with their faces painted green
from the flashing neon sign that dispenses a splash of colour
to the dingy grimy sidewalks of a soulless city scene.
But he’s not – his clothes are grimy – and his boots are very worn.
Take a minute and chat with him, in his eyes you’ll see despair;
and his jacket if you look close you will notice it is torn.
He’s a bloke you may pass everyday and yet not know he’s there.
Coffee finished, slow he rises, ventures out onto the street
heading back towards the walls of his palatial cardboard home.
The range of his shadow stretches tall – passes ghost like ‘cross a billboard
advertising a pore-tightening cream and facial cleansing foam.
And is he friend of my enemy or enemy of my friend?
Or is he a social outcast - one whose fallen through the cracks
of a society that’s blinded by its own greed and indifference?
He is all of these, but still a man. He just walks different tracks.
Maureen Clifford © 01/12
