Ragged Men

Shuffling, one by one. Men of disease and conviction and histories. First the clean ones, without the kindled ember of lunacy behind their eyes, that thirst for decay and relief. They travel their way back from the wilderness but aren't yet there. The line and walls are a way station, narrow as they are. Some have remained there, making a home that's not meant to be and aborting half-willed escapes and running through the laps one after the other; tripping, falling, and starting over again. But theirs are the footsteps of God. The chairs come next and the crutches, given special designation and a forefront to the feast of modesty. They say nothing other than barely audible monosyllables like primitive grunting. They're missing feet and they live what pity is felt when they're seen. Before long the barricades are opened and the brunt file in and await their meals. They're handed a tray and sustenance assembled through machinery that's scattered but swift and accurate. Thank you, some say. A tall, thin man walks up in glasses and a book under his arm like a teacher. His shirt buttoned and tucked in. Looks like Mr. Rogers. Why is he here, day after day? A gesture and last kind look on the way down to a ditch where they're alone and blind and dead. Behind the counter, she asks another his name. Arthur. Uncommon name, irreplaceable man. His navy beanie and coat move through the line and he goes with his back turned. Come back. Please. Like vampires they suck my love dry, like detestable creatures and I hate them for it. You arrogant man. They are your brothers, like it or not. Flesh and blood all the same and in the line. Squeezed by the walls inside and out. We march lockstep in their grip with a thousand miles between us.