He lies in a park littered with children and well-dressed mother's.The paint on the bench is peeling. Above him stretches a clear, blue sky spotted with clouds adrift on a breeze he can feel on his sallow skin.
I see him everyday.
Why is there? Who is he? What happened in his life?
I don't stare at him, but watch him from the corner of my eye.
He whispers to himself. Is the only person he talks to himself? Does he think of his parents, siblings, children? Do they think about him?
He moves with a limp from dustbin to dustbin. Each one a potential trove, each one a potential disease. But when did the day come when he didn't care anymore? Was it when he realised that a warm hearth and a roof didn't protect him from the rain? Was it when Christmas came and he found himself alone in the cold? Was it when he turned another year older and no one wished him a happy birthday?
So many days have gone by ...
I realise I could help. I have money, clothes, food in my fridge, but would it ease his beaten soul? I wish I knew.
He moves on. Mother's usher their children away from him. They cast down their eyes, wary and afraid. Children smile at him and wave, their innonce a valour knight protecting them from adult fears.
Prams, carry bags, possessions get moved from his path. Voices ripple in the wind, "disgusting," "pitiful," "shocking," and they crash down on his head with pounding ferocity.
When was the day the outside world ceased to see him as human?