I walk from a car park
through an underpass
and past a man who sleeps
wrapped in blankets
under fluorescent lights
on a cold concrete floor.
Some mornings, I see his hands poking out from beneath the blankets
cracked calloused skin.
Other mornings, I catch a glimpse of his frost-like illuminated face
ruddy hollow cheeks
eyes closed. Always.
I’m invisible to him as I silently slip past.
He thinks he’s invisible to me. And to society too.
But I see him. Even in the darkest dawn.
The tatters and the poverty.
The weary slum of his solitary decades and the impossibleness.
Screwed out of Heaven.
No comrades to walk the road with.
I sometimes want to shout to him what’s buzzing in my head and to tell him that I see him, that he doesn’t escape my view.
I want to tell him that I do think about who he is
that I do think about where he’s come from
that I do think about why he’s lying here, in the crack of the pavement, each morning
that I do see a human being before me.
Instead I keep my mouth shut
and I walk on past
silently saluting him.