Shoes worn down to the soles of his feet,
his trousers threadbare
Everything he owns in a plastic bag,
from a supermarket down the street.
Nameless might as well be faceless.
But, I observe his movements,
does he run with no particular destination?
If we throw a coin in his direction,
will that make a difference?
He hops trains moving from town to town.
Sleeping on park benches,
pillows are old newspapers with the latest
A scar runs along his shallow cheek
Marks the day that he began to run