He's tall, but stooped a little, weighted down by burdens no one else sees,
hugging to his stomach the cans in his hands
with more affection than anyone's given him since
he can remember, shuffling down the aisles,
too uncertain of the future to lose connection with
earth even for a second. He's mumbling to himself,
but his voice is stronger than his character,
loud enough for anyone walking past to hear.
"TIRED of people lookin at me. SO tired. Why'on't
they mind they own bizness. Don't know bout
these folk STARIN at me like I uz somethin
crazy." Which, of course, insures that people
will look at him -- look, then look away.
Some will wonder what uninvited troubles dropped round one night,
messing with his head until he just gave up, gave in.
Most won't see him at all, checking their lists
or texting to see if we need milk too.
Maybe a particularly kind soul will stop and ask if he's okay
(not I, not today), or some kid sitting in mommy's cart
will offer a spontaneous grin, and the man will grin back,
Maybe he'll remember what it was like to be loved.
I wish I'd at least said good morning.
(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012
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