A Man Trammelled by Pain

I do have a wise head you know,
even if my flesh has weakened
and seen better days and centuries.

I point my index finger hopelessly
in your direction – and beg for your attention.
Which I appreciate is small and limited.

You don’t really want to know my back story.
It is not flashy or famous – just inevitable.
I languish on the outskirts of your mind.

I dwell on the perimeters, the back streets.
My habitat is bare, bleak and beyond basic.
A doorway in plain sight corrupted by detritus.

I wait for your benevolence – forgotten coins.
Swept up by a hand from a bottomless pocket.
Landing at my feet without a word or glance.

But I am grateful and I will tell you my name.
As you walk swiftly away to a better life.
My name is Stewart and I have no fixed abode.