On the corner stands a man,
A squeegee in hand, he waits.
Running to cars and people that come by.
Very few even noticing he's alive
Until he is right before.
Look right through him or perhaps just passed.
pretending it is nothing more.
A man with tattered clothes, with perhaps the same tattered dreams as I.
A disposition too calm for the appearance radiated.
His harsh beard and scared face
The piercing blue eyes behind the shadow of darkness,
are in stark contrast with the grace and gentleness of his speech.
Unsure if my reality crosses with his.
If he boarders on the plane of insanity or confusion.
I don't see delusion in his eyes,
Perhaps only the delusion that there lies beauty in what to me seems desolate.
The sun pours out from a crack in the clouds.
Though to me insignificant, his eyes dart.
Mine follow.
As he walks to catch it, like a butterfly flying just out of reach
a car drives by
I lose focus and then he is gone
