The Bereft Man in the Park

His nails are crusted over with dirt and blood,
Little half crescent moons,
Set him apart from the rest of us.

Tattered and torn are his shoes,
It is debated between us whether they are well loved
Or just well worn.

He arrives at the park
Earlier than the dew,
And leaves later than the moon.

His home is like the bread crumbs in his hands,
That he gives to the ducks,
Scattered wherever the wind may blow him.

This poor bereft man of the park,
Feeds the crusts of his breads to the birds,
And smiles as he does so.

He may not have money as we do,
But he belongs,
His throne atop that park bench.

He wears his snaggle-toothed smile
With dignity
And I accept him
For he is better off in ways that I have yet to understand.