I can’t help thinking
Of a man
That I pass

He sits
Growing iller
Each day that goes by

His skin grows more mottled
His hair
Turning Greyer

And yet
He still greets me
Each time I walk past

What is his goal?
What it his mission?
And what of mine?
What of mine?

He is homeless
I am a worker
He sits quietly
As I rush on past

Perhaps we are brothers
Eternally connected?
Yet he grows cold
As I fill my belly

I can’t help but question
This world that we share
My smile is empty
His is warm

He touches more people
Than I do most likely
And bids them good morning
As they walk on by

What is the answer
To such a strange riddle?
Who is the fool
In this game of life?

What if we swapped
If just for a second
Would his smile
Turn as empty as mine?

Would he be happy
To feel warm
And be comfortable?

Would I be lost
Watching people
Go by?

I find
waking
at 2am
provides
a convenient window
for two or three hours
of pondering
on my myriad shortcomings
as a husband,
father,
teacher,
writer,
musician
and human being

Conveniently uninterrupted
by the slightest opportunity
to do anything
about any of them.