Another one of those days, no more special than the rest; He sits alone in his Sunday best.
The cars ebb and flow to the schizophrenic traffic lights; their radios blaring out with all of their might.
The news-reader is talking about interest rates; but they don't seem to see another's fate.
He watches them scurry about in their never-ending parade.
The city is dressed up for its nightly game of charades.
Jokers and clowns in their work-day attire.
Two lovers walking past the pavement whore who is strutting her stuff; needing to get paid before she retires.
On the corner of the street near the newspaper-stand, there is a power-suit swearing with another woe-man.
A busker is picking a string-less guitar, standing above an empty biscuit jar.
An old lady is knocked down by an enterprising young man, who does not even stop to give her a hand.
Juveniles hanging out in the dark alley are scheming; whose home will they be seeing?
A discarded cigarette is flushed away by a youth's yellow spray; cascading down to the ocean's ashtray.
Empty bottles line up against the graffiti wall; pealing advertising posters are about to fall.
As they pass by do they think this is strange; or do they just choose to ignore the deranged.
Accounting; the days and hours... the same as before.
Why is he sitting there; what is he waiting for?
No shoes and a holed brown suit; he aint got much that has not already been thrown out.
A battered suitcase full of old sepian photographs; souvenirs of a time long past.
This life kept in a suitcase marked destination Jericho; but is this the Promised Land where he now wishes to go?
Does he know his old life; does he remember his wife?
How does someone fall so far from grace; to end up in such a place?
Buddha sits all alone in the rain; but he doesn't complain.
He holds a rain drop in the palm of his hand; but I still do not understand.
With that wry smile on his face; you would think he had already found heavenly grace.