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Post by annbkeller on Jul 27, 2008 6:50:11 GMT -5
A VAGRANT’S VIGIL
He curls into a box, with the rain pouring down, Tucks his knees neath his chin to be smaller, Hunches his shoulders and twists like a pretzel, And thanks the sweet Lord he’s not taller.
A rag man would scorn the garments he wears, Patched and mended thrice over, you see, And the shoes on his feet are not fit for a cow, For they leak mud and snow equally.
His stench would wilt stout skunk cabbage Most give him a very wide berth, But he smiles and he nods as he hobbles along, His eyes bright with chuckles of mirth.
Life has scoured a path across his visage, Scratched tunnels over his cheeks and dark brow, Deep furrows are etched in the corners of his eyes, And his mouth bears the ravages of death’s plow.
The vagrant’s eyes are too watery, As he watches the crowds hurry by, Skipping over deep puddles like small children, While his presence they’d like to deny.
So, he waits in the shelter of the alley, In a box of drenched paper while he can, Till a kind one forgets what his senses display, And remembers the vagrant first was a man.
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Post by Deborah on Jul 27, 2008 17:22:50 GMT -5
What a wonderful, thought-provoking poem Ann! Beautifully sad with immense detail.
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Post by annbkeller on Jul 30, 2008 4:46:55 GMT -5
Thanks, Deborah. The image I had in my mind when I wrote this piece is very sad indeed - unless you include the hand of friendship and kindness in the entire picture.
Ann B. Keller
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