Saturday, February 23, 2013


And the feet are jutting out from under
As if in a
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
But what can I do, I mutter as I pass by on my rushed way
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?

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

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