guttersnipe

the boy moves in short shuffling steps.

in the tiny arc of his shoulders,

a resigned weariness

reflecting years of searching the pavement

with his eyes.

if you could convince him to lift his head,

you would be drawn to those eyes,

pale as winter moss.

in their hollowness

would be revealed a sense of life

as something

that has yet to be convinced

of his rightful place in it.

as evening spreads across the street,

hard-edged forms soften.

the boy could easily miss the small matchbox in the gutter.

but he doesn't.

passing through a pale yellow slice of of light,

he sees its rectangular outline.

closer still,

the cluster of pale red matchheads.

shuffling to the edge of the curb,

he crouches down

low to the cobbled roadway,

stretches out one small arm

and wraps his thin grey fingers around the cardboard prism.

the boy stands up slowly,

as he pushes the box inside his shirt

alongside the piece of bread,

the half-eaten apple,

the crumpled paper bag,

and the small green glass bottle.

it’s almost time to find a place to sleep for the night.

detail from little cobbler’s shop childe hassam

to read more variations on this meme then visit magpie's tales.