He sits with aging canvas bags Draped around him on the windy quay Where blown from busy parks he's come Sheathed in crumpled rags, in skin Seasoned by the salt and sun.
An old man by the harbour-side Mincing bread in callused hands And casting crumbs To a congregation of silver gulls Which parasitic and competitive Move in a constant emotional state About his feet.
And he beats a slow sad rhythm as he goes In tattered shoes Amongst the city's spirallings, Between the tidal, restless, to's and fro's. On habitual, familiar paths, Which only the vagabonds know, He steers his ragged ship of bones And breaks the bow upon the parting throng.