At home

At home in my cave

I’m muddling something

out on the street the beggar reclines

 

I try to imagine him from somewhere

unjeaned uncardboarded

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….

lost.

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