Street
By Jehangir Saleh
Written:  August  26, 2005

I was so lonely tonight that I imagined someone following me. Following myself. Nothing really.

I like how the dirty pavement at Yonge&Bloor supports the weight of my body as I sit down to write a poem, drawing the words out from the heart of a wound.

Attractive and intelligent women are too scared to notice the relatively well dressed hobo writing a poem about them on the street corner.

This is a really terrible way to attract attention, I think. Even worse making friends. But I’m here. Waiting.

Again.

Temendous amounts of power are taken away from me on this corner; everyone is higher, they must look down at me.

This poem doesn’t matter. It is only for me. I have finally admitted that the wound is my own. I will stop trying to create and fix the hearts of those around me.

On the street, I am a bum. Alone.
And somehow, I feel free.