I wonder what his days have seen,
if he wasted time or time was mean,
drowning regrets down his throat
gulping to forget,  bemused by the road
tattered, withered, dirty and lean.

What if he had a wife, a daughter or son
if his love was the real one
if his heart was torn asunder
bleeding by the bridge he sleeps under
beat and worn, eroded, undone?

Maybe he stood strong and tall,
was clean and sober, would never fall.
What if he prayed all his prayers
and he denied all nay sayers?
father, husband, son, giver to all.

Imagine the bolt that shook his core,
that twisted and smashed him to the floor,
that gave him that hole deep inside
that ripped his soul open wide
that thing that shut slam hearts’ door.

I must  carry on and scurry by
and not glance or look in his eye
I’m headed to hearth and house, my home.
By himself, unattached, left to roam.
Towards my life, him to his, mine to relish his to cry .