The Wino's Shirt

I remember the lights as
dim like the single bulb in the
basement that comes with
a string that swings too low.
Upon the littered street,
darkness casting shadows
that match the shadows of light,
fight over which corners they
will cast their spell upon.
Kids released from a Metalica concert
wander around everywhere
like ants around their dirt.
Late at night in this strange city,
my head in my pocket,
I sneak long stares at
a wino and his box of cheap Cabernet.
He loudly chats to a fellow bum,
caught deep in conversation
about nothing important.
They enjoy the night,
occasionally spitting grit from their teeth.
Another bum shuffles by in slippers and
torn corduroy's with a round, white
bell, impregnated with beer.
Maybe. It could have been rye.
He twirled his oily gray hair with
one dirty hand,
sucked his thumb with the other,
allowing scary noises to escape
from his encrusted mouth.
He could have been lost;
a stray dog looking for someone
to follow.
Deranged, the stray dog may need to be shot.
I think he was foaming at the mouth.
The wino on the steps of the
government building
shouts to him:
Need a shirt, mate?
I watched, engrossed in the moment,
while waiting for the bus
to take me safely home,
shaking from too much smoke...
Stray dog quickens his shuffle,
almost loosing a slipper on the stair;
less gracefully than Cinderella herself,
and grabs the shirt without thanks
from the wino
who had just taken
the shirt off his back.
Uncontrolled shock slivered throughout
my entire body.
I let choked air stab
and I cough in an attack
of almost swallowing my
tongue.
What is this emotion?
Guilt? Betrayal?
I felt small. Like one of the ants
wandering around me, looking
for anything that could be important.
I wanted to get up and sit
with the wino.
I wanted to be his friend.
Greedy was I to want such company
even if he no longer wore his
shirt?
Maybe his only shirt?
I wanted to know.
I got up to speak with him
and almost missed my bus.
I paid my fair and watched
through the water stained window
at the wino and his shirt
of skin.
Was this Jesus?
This man of many colours was
living on a stair with a box of Cabernet
chatting like
nothing had happened.
His kindness
changed
everything.
I bought a box
of Cabernet the next day,
and sat on my stair
waiting for my
revelation to
take over my thoughts,
like the rain of light and darkness
of the single bulb in my basement.


Jennifer
2000