Scarecrow (a poem)

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)

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