I didn’t see him sitting there and neither did the dog.
Usually, he’s unmistakable with his schizophrenic swagger,
his hair emptied in a crop circle among a field of gray follicles.
How we both missed him,
how the dog failed to smell him,
my amazement in
how I didn’t smell him.
being homeless and less dirty than people going home to their
shower every night would be quite a feat,
wouldn’t you say?
I’ve never noticed the spot he’s sitting in before;
it’s strangely hidden even though it brushes shoulders with the
The tree leaves umbrella down, a green canopy over his bald leather
crown, his coarse remains wrapping around his ears like ivy, an invasive
outgrowth of matted beard, a jungle down his neck and back too.
The bark on the trees is milk chocolate brown, the dirt is dark chocolate
with sea salt and worms.
I see him before the dog sees him, (this no-good protector of mine)
and he’s five feet from us,
a frog on a green rock, a lotus on water, quiet and sitting with his legs crossed.
Other days I can look down from my apartment a block over, I can look down and see him under my window, chatting to himself, sitting in a circle of empty food wrappers, sometimes sitting for only a few seconds before pushing himself up again.
I’ve watched him a few times now.
Him oblivious to my watching. Him, a character in my world.
A product of my society.
Today, he sat and watched
me: a character in his world.
A product of his society.
Today he sat and watched a man and his dog.
Today, he was as sane as the trees,
minimum, as sane as this world.