He sits waiting but for who he doesn't know.
I sit finishing up my chart from the last run.
He looks at the passing faces with confusion and concern.
I look at my fellow workers and strike up a conversation.
He wants to call out for help but is afraid.
I get the call for help and head for the scene.
He meets an officer and he answers "I cant move along" wiith an embarassed feeling.
I meet the officer who admits he thought he was just another vagrant.
He tries to stand but he can not.
I tell him not to stand, though he still attempts.
He doesn't know what to make of me
I don't know what to make of him.
He says he can do it on his own.
I say let us help.
He feels young at heart, he looks old and aged. The sun has blemished his skin, the wind has hardened his face. His wrinkles chissled in his face's granite fasade, His eyes blueish grey screaming out in pain and anguish. Time has washed all the color from his hair and beard leaving it white. His hands, rough as sand paper and cold as ice, his fingers jaggedly contorting inwards with lose of dexterity. This urban nomads right foot externally rotated from years of abuse to his body, his left leg bent.
He wears layers of clothes because he has no place to keep them, his boots tied up with rope. He has spent years on the street. Made it through heat waves and blizzards, droughts and floods, and has received hand outs and has been made a fool of. He is an old weathered man to stubborn to know when to give in to the help that surrounds him. Or maybe He feels to much pride to accept from those who offer assistance.
Not knowing what its like to be him, He knows not what it is to be me. There is something that connects us on this day, we are both fighting to keep him safe.