The Vagrant Poem by Kevin Patrick

hes there, ambling
all over the street corner
hovering on the peripherals
of your vision and compassion
as you drive along home
out of sight and
out of mind


with his dishevelled beard,
and long stringy white hair
hes like some street prophet
looking for a congregation
hes just part of the scenery
like stop signs and potholes
hes a survivor in this jungle
of concrete and poverty


his face is a chiselled desert
of wrinklies like Peruvian lines
vicious mementos
of the life hes been dealt with
the suns tattooed his skin
with a permanent stain of burns
the grit cannot be washed
from his dermis or his soul


in his wrinkled beige shorts
and half buttoned plaid shirt
that looks like its not been washed
in several days or more
a black band on his right wrist
is a souvenir from the hospital
that he just checked out
with know one to welcome him home

his world is a crinkled plastic bag
that holds all his possessions
a toothbrush and some toothpaste
some rollos and a soft drink
hes on the lookout for some smokes
asking passerby's for a light
nicotine will cure the itch
as the world drives on by


a stray soul
soldiering at the corner
at somepoint he was a man
with friends and family and dreams
but now hes the walking dead
and nobody knows
his birth name