Bring me your weary...

When I would walk to work I would pass Saint Bartholemew Church on the corner of 48th Street and Park Avenue. Upon the steps of the church a homeless man would be emerging from his cardboard-like shelter. I would watch him for a litlle while and then get on my way. However, he left an impression with me and I share it with you below;

"...a repetition in a repetitiousness...", observed
"of men and flies"...

Emerging once again from his cardboard manger
the slouched, heavy-eyed beast
rises to his kingdom’s rising cacophony.
He tries to rub the weariness
from his eyes. In his tattered robes
he leans against the Church’s massive doors,
out of scale against such backdrop.

Three wise men pass,
and many more will pass,
(both wise and unwise)
as the day moves to night.
No one seems to see this man.
No one seems to hear his call.

Day’s dawn forgotten dauphin.
He wears his poverty–
his crown of thorns. Homeless,
shoeless, mumbling passages
and parables of his plight.

His rants fall on sullen ears
the laics have places to go
meetings to meet– scurry by in curious neglect.

Frustrated, epithets will spill
from his mouth. He curses the world
and Saint Peters deemed rock
on which he stands. The day will draw
to yet another close.

The night’s coolness will cool him, (somewhat)
and slogging towards his Bethlehem–
this sad life, this sad birth– like death;
will seek solace within his corrugated,
cardboard box.

And tomorrow will bring...