My little-lost friend
is that you I see
at times
sleeping on a park bench,
shopping carts
and effects anchored.
Homeless.
With your eyes holding shame,
brown and sad.
I can't help.
But see.
I see you inching,
inching along on the earth,
pitch black and poor,
weathered, severed
and dirtied.
Lost in time.
Mouth open.
Where open hands may be closed.
I do pass by you every morning,
thinking,
thinking of you.
As you drum your thumbs
to your own music,
in your own darkened world.
Where the albatross rest on your drooping shoulders,
as you piggyback what olive branches there are.
I can't help.
But think.
As you sit shrugging
in those same brown pants
and redshirt,
holding weeks of grime
and stench.
No doubt,
holding passerby's
casting eyes, thoughts
and conversation.
Sometimes,
I can't watch.
But hope.
Yes, hope and pray.
As you go looking into the pockets
of thrash,
digging for change,
literally,
hopefully,
three ways to paradise,
please,
yes, sir, please.
And maybe.
Just maybe.
You will find better
and parkgoers can use the bench again.
That would be a nice olive branch,
to give back,
my friend.

Logan Robertson

8/1/2018