Trudging along the highway

A long stretch of weeds and dried grass

And sagging wire fence.

In the distance a roadside market

As cars passing.

Not quite limping on scarred

Sore legs, walking, stopping, walking

This man, not another, this man

Walking along the edge.

Drivers see him, maybe dangerous,

Maybe drugged?

Walking on sore legs, walking along the edge.

 

I stop, unable to leave him walking

On his sore, scarred legs.

And on to the store, we talk a bit

Of sorrow and of kindness

Of lost tomorrows and things locked

Inside his mind.

He buys himself something to drink

As I take him were he asked.

 

“Between that dumpster and that wall

There’s a nice bit of grass,

Stores around, my mother lives near here.

I don’t see her much, I use to shower

At her house. She’s old and cranky

And asks where I’ve been.”

 

Walking on the edge.

 

“It’s nice behind the dumpster

Grass and all and no one sees me there

Quiet, no one asks me questions

No one talks to me and I don’t bother

Anyone, out here on the edge.”