7:15 am, biking by a bus stop

7:15 am, biking by a bus stop
 
 
He is curled heavy on the lowest step

scratching his face with fingers 

more paw than hand. A compulsory,
unconscious movement and relief 

nothing yielding.
 
I am irrevocably reminded of a cat

from my childhood, so old, so

old that her skin was too dry to endure
and she would scratch, scratch until

she tore right through (seeking what
peace might lie on the other side).

 
This man's face is raw and red now

and bearded from what portion I can see.
The rest of him hunches against the
concrete stair, his knees in torn denim
splayed out in a way that makes my knees hurt,
a vodka handle, not quite empty, cradled
against his crotch, one hand
loose around the neck. 

 
Next to him stand two remarkably clean girls,
fresh, waiting for the bus.
One is plugged in, music coursing in thin wires
to her ears, fingers frantically
swiping and flittering across a glowing screen.
The other has her arms loosely crossed,
and stares resolutely ahead.
 
 
 
 
 
 
july 2014, copyright Sarah Hirsch