At home in my cave
I’m muddling something
out on the street the beggar reclines
I try to imagine him from somewhere
the memory of a mother, a father
in the narrow of his eye
or the bike stumbling gait.
What is his kinship now? of earth or sky?
What does he care for the wind or sun,
rain or snow?
Why are you always walking? he asks me.
what can I say?
that I’m afraid I’m like he seems….