Contact.

by Sue - Copyright 2007.

Old man on dusty pavement,

huddled against the wall,

trying to snatch a fragment

of warmth from cold red bricks;

wants to catch just a glance from a passerby,

this little human contact is all he asks,

craves wordlessly,

eyes without hope - a desire to reaffirm his existence.

People pass,

eyes studiously averted to avoid being contaminated,

as if his bitterness will leave a sour taste in their mouths too,

the dirt on his hands and face

negate their soap and fresh perfume.

Yet he too once was young,

a child playing with his train set,

signals red, circular track going nowhere;

maybe building a tower of bricks

then watching them fall.

They are still falling now.

A blond child, nudged by mother,

approaches him on timid feet,

edging forward, fifty pence in small clean hand,

for a moment eyes meet, man and boy.

The old man smiles; child runs back to mummy

and a different life.