Yesterday, though not in a hurry, I passed a wolfish boy or man cluttered in the street, splashed aside by the rain of feet around him on his slab of space. Spare any change was what he said to me in cockney words, not-really words, for not-really me and though not in a hurry, I didn’t even murmur sorry, I rained past him and over him, or at least over his shape battered like a rock. I scrambled over him like the horrified child who simply has to get somewhere, somewhere abandonment cannot get to, somewhere cruelty cannot reach, but somehow does.
In silence I followed the space with each step: who turned it loose in such a wide open place, who left it in the rain, who knew what I knew, that love had left us, and this was all we had, the rain, our bodies and no destination with nowhere left to turn. Who is this staring at the memory lost in the verdant muddy verge? Who is this who opens the front door with a tacit knowledge that time is a thief? Who is this wiping the mist from my eyes, as I hold the ones I love in my arms. Who is this shadow of a man?