There but for the grace of God?

His pants, too big, and stained, are held up by
a length of string. His shirt, a dirty grey
is ripped, and one side hangs out through his fly.
He shuffles up the footpath, heads my way,
his feet thrust into unlaced canvas shoes;
I wish I hadn't come downtown today.

His right eye’s swollen shut - a livid bruise,
but on the left, oh Lord, his fine left eye!
His challenge: Try to look away . . . you’ll lose.

And so I look, locked into brightest blue,
no sign of booze, disease or dope - so what
would bring a man to this? I can’t pursue
such questions, how he fell, his Camelot
destroyed perhaps . . . or think what I might do
should this sweet world of mine begin to rot.

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