Overcast expression on pale skin, black glazed eyes,
upright against the side of an old, stone church.
His hanging cheeks
his navy-blue Puffa jacket, warped around him,
his fingerless gloves untwitching in his lap...
Humans click past,
their bouncing bags held tight,
heading to Marks and Spencers or the Colosseum.
The church drowns in his skant breath,
a sinking, extinct volcano
of illusory aid.
Regretfully caught in careless eyes
he doesn’t evoke sympathy,
- sympathy requires effort -
he is no more than half of the image:
a tramp by a converted church.