There’s a man
at our local shops
who orbits erratically around his hat
singing in a husky mutter,
hunched over his tight, protruding belly
his words foreign
In their orthopedic sandals
and thick white socks,
his feet – like his eyes –
barely leave the ground.
Some days he seems bereft,
his hoarse voice weary
but other days I read him differently
and wonder if the past is here –
a lifetime of romance embedded in a pavement crack;
an old dispute wisping by on a chewing gum wrapper
a beautiful scene painted over the drab
shopping centre garden bed.
Perhaps his emotions are fleeting
as the clink of a few coins in his hat.
I walk past always intrigued
and for some reason slightly awed
and think up stories for him
in the grocery aisles.