Grandstand Joe sits atop the stairs
Observes all that lies below him.
The early morning sun pokes its way towards him
He winces as he stares east
Grateful he has survived another night.
He watches the walkers and joggers move past him
Some glance up, most ignore him
He doesn’t care, he’s alive, he has routines.
Gathering his possessions
He’s off to the servo
They let him use the toilets there.
He checks the bins on the way
There’s good pickings outside the chicken shop.
He sits at the bus stop
Not wanting to go anywhere
But to watch the world go by.
There’s a crust in his bag from yesterday,
He chews on it as the workers all depart.
His speech is stilted as he rarely speaks
The lady at the op shop knows him, knows his size
Knows he’ll be in come the first winter breeze.
She knows only his first name
Not his story or where he’s from
He’s just a man, down on his luck.
‘Who am I to judge,’ she thinks.
‘There but for the grace of God go I.’