the filthy-bearded man greets me
at six a.m., looking for a friend
he speaks gibberish, not knowing
where he is, how he arrived
at my steps, as i step back
he’s unmasked, skinny like an
old, crusted scarecrow with
scared eyes and smeared jeans
he leans on the door, takes my
offered cigarette then cries and
wails, his frail body quivering
without a home, without a working mind
without an identity in this world
that seeks to place us in
comfortable, medicated categories
of despair
(Photo by Jorg Karg on Unsplash)
