Indian Man Poem by Win Gray

Indian man makes himself visible at dusk
When the sun sets behind the hills
He invites the world to witness his existence
As he eerily opens the creaking board door of his one-room shack
Religiously, for an hour he stands alone,
Alone in that open door, with darkness his interior decorator
He stands skin and bones, looking like a demon waiting to attack a Christian
Long, matted, thin, grey hair swings tiredly in the evening’s breeze
While hanging from his emaciated, long, creepy face
In his white merino and bluish plaid underwear
His knock-kneed legs, his hunched back, disfigure poor Indian Man
With bulging eyes he looks at the world, fraternizing with no one
Living a life of solitude, the world his enemy

Antagonistically, every evening he greets the world
His hands by his side like a soldier on inspection
A skeleton, revealing his gauntness, reprieved by God
Drearily stands between the doorpost
Staring at the vehicles drive by
No toot from a horn to acknowledge his presence
Only disbelieved, pitiful eyes staring at Indian Man
And his noticeable abandonment of self
Standing alone, alone in that open door
Watching the world pass by without a flinch
Making no attempts to discover what is beyond his front door
Poor Indian Man looks bereft
But mask it by assuming a frightening incognito

His desolate appearance complements his lifeless home
Nestled in a swampy land near the seashore
No companion, no offspring
No running water, no electricity
Only a foam mattress laid on top of concrete blocks
Where he lays his head at nights
Puzzlingly, when it darkens and the crickets start chirping
He unnervingly takes two steps backward
His eyes searches the perimeters of his abode
Then with his head looking down like a monster at Halloween
He quickly disappears behind the safety of his black door
Waiting for another day to mysteriously appear at twilight
When he can stand alone, alone in that open door.