Dumbstruck by his vision
the old man of my eye
carries around his friction
emotions gone awry

He stands under the bus stop
not waiting for a ride
he mocks and spits the travelers
they run but they can't hide

His left eye round and angry
his right tired and sore
his hair lost all encounters
to water, soap and comb

I wonder what's he thinking
he swiftly flaps his head
his teeth tremble or mumble?
Is he afraid of death?

Some passing kids are teasin'
guerrilla fight his coat
they tap, and slap and poke him
they're going for his throat

He hollers vacant vowels
of any kind of threat
inside, he enjoys attention
his need is half-way met

He'll go for understanding
he's spitting jumbled words
the kids now squat around him
entangle his boot cords

'Oh grandpa tell us stories'
his mind translates to him
he smiles relaxed and mellow
surrendered to the whim

"I had a home once" -he stutters
"back in the New Orleans"
"now government provides for me"
"Oh yes, I have my means"

"But not a home; no more"
"no porch and dog to pet"
"my missus must have kept them"
"under a ground so wet"

The children gallivanting
noticed the word 'dog'
they tell him of their puppies
Butch, Jonas and Bob

He feels his words are wanning
into a carefree wind
I see some moisture shinning
onto his face's tint

Silent he stands and walks away
his feet drag his remorse
back to his alley of boxes
he thinks "hell, could be worse"

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