PRIVILEGED BEING


          His life one long underpass
          beneath a railway bridge, a highway.
          Or on the post-office steps, outside
          the cathedral after mass, he waits
          patiently. Or in a darkened shop doorway,
          eyes lowered, hands at his sides,
          wearing the same old garments,
          once of good quality, now tattered,
          he stands silently, ghost with gleaming eyes.

          He listens to snatches of foolish talk,
          collecting memories of squandered words
          and the laughter of certain passers-by.
          When it's fine, he sits in a quiet corner
          of a park, away from the playground,
          the tennis court, the bowling green.
          There he gathers bird song, the wind
          in the trees, the scent of flowerbeds.

          He drinks at the fountain like a sparrow,
          gives the ruffled beard a splash,
          picks half a sandwich from the rubbish bin,
          fits his lips to someone else's bite,
          the only kind of kiss he knows.

          His life is dangerous solitude, invaded
          by cruel children, drunken hooligans.
          He has no companions. A crowd increases
          misery enough for one. And is content with
          his own thoughts, his own entertainment.

          Now and then, someone gives him a few coins.
          He accepts them. He does not say thankyou.
          There is no thankfulness in constant fear.
          All he knows is, it is already
          privilege enough to be still alive.


           © James Kirkup, 2008




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