180° degrees

slumped on a bench,

filthily clothed,

yellowed beard,

bandaged foot.

bike, bag, beer

blood, breath, bone:

simple possessions.

conversations with

invisible creatures --

a box of pills 

created his world.

Does he perceive my curious stare?

what happened?

i want to know,

yet write this poem

instead of ask.

bad Childhood?

unfortunate luck? 

poor choices?

perhaps all three?

i am stuck with 

an outside view,

flatly labeled story:

homeless man.    

would his life

have changed

if i’d talked?

even a simple hello?

mine would have. 

i would be free 

of this nagging guilt,

my mind at ease 

with compassion.

i continue on my 

straight path,

viewing life

at a new angle.