the perpendicular man

The most vicious of circles closes as you bow to us.

Like those born to swim, to run, to think,

were you built to beg?

Or has begging itself cast you in this mould?

The sky shines the colour of my youthful eyes today,

and the fresh bark that of your Spanish complexion,

in a time long past.

Your only clue of light the intense reflection

of petty change in your cup.

Dancing, taunting shadows on your weary skin.

Or are they the shadows of those who avoid you?

Those who need not look you in the eye as they pass.

Your outstretched arm with cup;

a stick for the blind that will not lead you to safety.

There are not many who would bend

for their livelihood and stay, thus

obscuring the world

in which they only wish to continue living.

The passing of time is chronicled

by the degradation of your shoes.

The same ones you wore the day you first bowed,

never to rise again.

The emergence of your toes

the last remaining symbol that you control your path.

The length of your toenails,

like the rings of the trees you cannot see,

the only indicator of your age.

Of some advancing anniversary of your birth.

Today is my birthday,

and many will remind me.

But yours will come and go,

as your feet too are covered by cataracts.

And the spiteful sun leaves you,

just the feeling of your cup in hand,

which, full or empty,

chimes the metallic sound of forsakenness.