Here's to the man

Here’s to the man who was walking the dogs with faces like an ugly bull.

And all the bleached white bones of days,
sun dried and whitened by the streets of prefab corrugations, fall around to make a you, never a strong enough breath, if  breath is spirit, to tie with ligaments your parts to let you see yourself in your hope of wholeness, but people underestimate the achievement of just getting by, the skill of walking just behind the footfall, a gentle touch on the street that leaves you strangely separated...

...strangely sanctified,   

No amount of electrical stimulation, simulation, can deal with being told that you should own, that you should be free, but not how you can get it, it’s hand to mouth and hand to head, always a step removed, baccy on the back step sweet tea on slow afternoons, pull the curtains like you’ve left for work then wander, walk about, it’s in our genes to keep on walking looking for something more.

Here’s to the man who was walking the dogs with faces like an ugly bull.