portrait

streetwise 

on the cobblestone lay a man barely resembling a man

dressed in little more than heavy dark brown rags

(but who knows their original hue).

cloaked in a layer of dirt

the accumulation of days 

and days of nothing, of lack of shower change or shave

no opportunity or no reason or both,

he snores loudly, his mouth a gaping hole

expanding and contracting as if not he

but the grizzly beast of a beard upon his face breathes in

and emits a dull guttural noise.

three empty bottles of wine stand in front of his body

as if to create a distasteful portrait of Bacchus 

and the stale permeable scent of body odor and misfortune

wafts into the mid afternoon air.

why? how? don't you try?

later on he's asked to leave as he's made patrons uncomfortable 

less likely to enjoy their entrée,

so he stands up unsteady and teetering. 

like a small child bewildered and looking for his mother 

he stumbles off, and i'm no longer disgusted,

not glad to see the scene tidied up,

my heart aches, i'm sad and guilty.

where? what? how'd you get here?

envy? hope? do you wish?

once just a baby a boy a young man

when?

i'll never know, never come to understand, so much, so many.