he sits
eyes cast down
head imperceptibly rocking
to some unknown tune
lips moving in silent mantra
on a frozen patch of concrete under institutional blue scaffolding
he sits
bundled amongst slipshod blankets
great black plastic bags
random chunks of styrofoam
and corrugated cardboard
untold layers of socks and shirts
pants and grime
oblivious to cacophony
of city streets
that dance in delicate brutal choreography all around him
he sits
like himalayan monk
whose mountain is reduced
to a slab of broken concrete
in the hub of the wheel of the world
morning brings his absence
gone to nirvana
or to sit
on some other mountain to bless
some other traveler
he sits
The Tao Of Brother T 