"Praise the meek
Praise the timid
Praise the unwanted!"
He knows toils,
the street hymns,
secret bungalows
of the tattered,
the terrors
of being invisible.
The sidewalk cracks
under ***** boots
and yields to the weight
of his woes.
A floppy hat crowns
the colored face,
yellow eyes and teeth,
that suffer climates.
Stains scar a gray sweatshirt.
If only they had mouths.
What gospels they would sing!
"This is when I became lost.
This is when I hungered.
When I shivered,
when I bathed in moonlight!"
Tiny radio shrieks
cheap jazz from
worn speakers,
shouting horns and piano.
He is blues
and knows what it's
like to be broken
with nothing but hobo dreams
that few will hear.
He struts,
limps,
shrugs,
SURVIVES!
Faint music and a yellow backpack
fades around the corner
and he looks like a
champion songbird for the forgotten.