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Because I still have hope... I don't care of your hand stretched towards me with bitten slice of pizza, runny cheese dangling from brown crust. I have forgotten the taste of food out of the oven, can't pull the ring of a can and dip my nose in gusts of foam. No use trying to read my face. It's worn out leather cover over pages erased by the night wind on concrete pavements. My voice has grown thin, a squeak of mice in mind's trap, though I hear echoes of blasts from past foghorns. I don't care of your furtive glance as my stick fishes in the trash bin, hooks treasures discarded by full stomachs. I could tell you I still have hope, find it wrapped in greasy paper with chunks of meat, dust and flat beer in twisted cans. But sure you don't care. © Paula Grenside |
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Commentary: Always very hard to write poetry on social topics without being repetitive; accusatory. I saw this homeless man fishing in the trash; aside the shock and my not knowing what to do, I was impressed by his blank face, the utter indifference he showed for the hundreds of people passing by. Had I given him money or food, he' d have refused. I perceived this as if he were sending me a message. I tried to walk in his shoes, see the situation from his point of view. Paula Grenside Bonfire contributor |