Whenever I see someone
Sprawled on
a bench,
Exposed to
the elements,
Hands in a
clench,
I wonder if
long ago,
Curled in
his crib
Or perched
in his high chair,
With drips
on his bib,
A mom or a dad,
With the
tenderest gaze,
Saw their hopes
for their son
Mapped in
various ways.
They certainly
never
Imagined him
stuck
On a bench
in a city park,
Down on his
luck.
Few
passersby stop,
(And yes,
that includes me)
Rarely
thinking about
How such
things come to be.
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