Brittle bones,
knackered backs
look where have we been,
steaming
bickering
all within,
faltering legs slipping through the streets,

this man;
would you still greet?

Ashen lungs, falling through
bruised hands;
brimming of stench
been home late,
lately—

this man;
would you still put arms around?

old shirt pieces,
spectacles of destiny
uttering broken-frames;
for a new sweater
weaved into his soul-born.

this man,
would you call a miser still?

Look at those fingers,
go across the keyboard—
Look at the tubelight
light those eyes up
all night.

this man
would you still smile for?

For once,
let me know—
this man,
and his tears;
would you bear upon your lap?