Raymond nearly alien
rubs his ancient feet;
head down, blanket-wrapped,
rests on a ledge by the street.
Present but invisible
to commuters driving fast:
do you count the hours that pass?
or ask yourself of what value is
a life that neither takes nor gives
but only shakes a weary head
at what has never been?
There’s food around the corner
and shelter from the rain.
You are detached, ignore
the rising sun that births the day
and offers you another way
to overcome the vagaries
of likeness and conformity
among your fellow men.
What are we to do with you,
stranger from another world?
Can we heal your hurts?
Can we befriend
this lonely man
who offers only misery,
the pains of God
Who hung upon a tree?
