rooting around
the garbage can, an empty
soda can in his hands,
mumbling under breath, and i wonder
who he is, who he was,
who he could have been. is he
alone in this world
?
does he have family
a spouse, a child,
a sister, a brother?
why
is he here, at 330 am,
sifting through someone's trash,
yelling
at empty roads?
blow he never recovered from?
barrage of calamities,
razing his spirit one
event at a time? whose
failure is this:
his, or ours.
mine.
in another universe, i imagine
he’s a professor, teaching
about public health.
in another universe, i imagine
he’s surrounded by the warmth of
friends, family, not
the cold of concrete.
in another universe, i imagine
he is anywhere but here,
right now,
in a world that gives
enough of a **** and
works well enough
he’s caught
before he slips through the net, before
he drowns.
but he isn’t he’s here,
right now,
wading through
the filth of apathy and
fending off imaginary foes.
he looks up at me, and
shame turns my head,
guilt keeps it there, and
i wonder: could he ever
be me?
