Every day I saw him.
Slumped into the bus stop--he never raised his head,
A mottled beer bottle sitting tiredly by his foot.
Every day I walked past,
And stepped to the edge of the path so as not to breathe him in.
He never raised his head.
His lined face frightened and closed,
And his home piled up around him,
Like a snail.
I walked by him,
But then I stopped--suddenly.
I bent down, and gave him some money.
And he lifted his head--
His eyes were an icy, icy blue--
Like midwinter frost against hard dirt.
They probably meant a lot to someone once.
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