The Homeless Man.

He is ordered
and neat
and squirrels away useful items,
useful to him , at least.
He finds them in the piles of things thrown out with the rubbish on rubbish day.
He packs and unpacks and packs again all his belongings,
into his trolley taken from some or other supermarket.
Perhaps he needed it more than the busy shoppers
gaily filling it up with this and that,
things that they might need or want...
useful to them..
He wraps himself up like a caterpillar spinning a cocoon of silk
but not with silk and softness but with thick plastic.
A barrier of protection from the pelting rain.
He sleeps, soundly, as the rain streams down the window pane,
my face pressed up firmly to the glass, gazing out into the night.
I am warmed by food and clothing and heath and wealth,
while he lies asleep on the pavement outside, warm and cosy in his plastic cocoon.
As if he had not a care in the world.

What were the things in his life that fashioned him to be homeless and sleep out on the hard , cold and unfriendly pavement?
Where people shout
and shove
and call him names
and where danger lurks as the sun closes shop .
In the dark night he is alone.
He is alone...
Yet I feel scared.
How strange!

What happened to him?
What wrong choices did he make and what choices does he have?
I ponder the answers to these and other questions as The man sleeps soundlessly on the pavement.
My soul wrestles yet again with shame and pity and sadness and anger.
A boy prays " please Lord can Brian find a place where he is welcome" and inwardly I cringe with guilt and sadness.