Robert Breecher

This man was actually in this situation with me when I ended up talking to him and asking if I could write about him.

 That quiet doorstep

beside me

was occupied

by a homeless man.

 

The stubble that

speckled his chin

matched the

wet and darkened

pavement.

With far distant eyes

he watched a sea of angry traffic

flow in and out of his

foggy intersection.

 

His mumbling, murmuring

speech pattern

resembled that 

of an insecure

high schooler

who tries desparately

to secure his status 

by exhibiting his

foul tongue.

 

I wanted nothing more

than to take the 

place next to him

and ask him

what his story was. 

He often looked up

his eyelashes catching

the raindrops

that then dripped

into his open palms

and caught my eyes 

with his.

He became silent

in those moments.

Nearly sane once again.

I longed for more of that

gentle quiet.

 

We took the bus

that pulled up to his corner

across town.

He made still contact

with me again

as he walked out onto another

corner

and I watched him

through the rivulets

as we pulled away.

 

I never saw him

again.