fingers of light dance on his haggard face,
forcing their way
through the holes in the ragged curtains into his room.
he hauls his unwilling body from the sagging mattress
and crawls into his dirty, patched clothes.
washing the sleep from his tired eyes,
thinking "maybe today. oh God, today."

outside, the wind, strong and harsh,
cuts through his rags
as he walks nowhere, everywhere, anywhere
looking for work
looking for someone
looking for himself.
he stops, and from the deck of the bridge,
casts his gaze down into the water,
thinking "maybe today. oh God, today."

dusk closes in as he shuffles home.
a dog busily burying a bone
pauses to snarl and bark at him as he drags by,
dejected, impoverished, and lonely.
he plods onward
exhausted and hopeless.
stopping, looking down,
thinking ...

Copyright 1974,1997 Brian E. Pederson - All Rights Reserved