Feet

And the feet are jutting out from under

As if in a

Morgue

Face concealed

The rest of him tucked beneath a

Grubby cover

And the feet, socksed, lying

On the pavement

Seem detached from the body

The skin between cover and socks, pale and

Mottled

But what can I do, I mutter as I pass by on my rushed way

What

I try to imagine the rest of him; almost certainly a him

Young or old?

Bearded or smooth faced?

Wrapped in a coat under that makeshift blanket against the

January air?

Where was he yesterday?

Tomorrow?

I glance at the feet as they rest on the far edge of the margins

But a few inches away from traffic whizzing past

Oh, these defenseless feet, the socks slightly rolled down as if

To not irritate the skin. 

Pink socks.  Perhaps not a him after all.

But what can I do

What