He seems at war with himself,
standing just off the curb,
arms robot stiff at his sides,
eyes staring downward,
his concentration so extreme
he flinches at any new thing—
whether outside his head or in—
that enters his awareness.
He can—if necessary— respond
to our voices. Does he, we wonder,
hear others we cannot?
His reek keeps most of us at a distance—
where he seems to prefer us
(the reason, no doubt, he walks
not on the sidewalk, but in the street,
as he haunts the neighborhood).
Watching him from a distance,
I ponder how we might wash his feet.
Alan Howe is a writer, avid bird watcher, and retired librarian and pastor living in Oakland, California.