a broken down
old man
just
a bag
of
bones
but
he’s
the
intended result
of
systemic injustice
in
an apartheid
or
caste system society
a government society
with
or
without
the label
democracy
anyway
such labels
merely conceal
the oppressor’s
identity
behind
some flag draped
excuse
for
the oppression
in reality
the only thing
that matters
is
that in the end
of
the social processing
you end up with
a broken down
old man
just
a bag
of
bones
who’s preoccupied
with
survival
and
is unable
to do
anything else
I saw a homeless elderly white man and homeless elderly black man sitting on a bench watching the young men play basketball together in the park. They had all their belongings with them. One had a beat up old guitar. They were laughing and joking and smiling and looked as if life was fun for a moment. For that moment they were happy, if disheveled and in need of a bed and a proper meal. For a moment the world did not look so hostile. I bought them both a cup of coffee and gave them a couple of bucks each. It was more than I could afford, but I guess they reminded me too much of people I used to know that have gone now. The compassion in your poem is palpable. Thank you for writing this. Survival takes all. It breaks my heart too.