S h o e s

Somewhere across the road lives a crooked old man
crooked 'cos when he stands up,
he's nearly half-bent.
They call him the karang guni;
When he comes around
we give him what he wants
and we don't take the money
nor give him any
'cos then he would take it as a slight
and besides you know - it's just not right.

I don't know exactly where he lives -
I'm not up yet
since there's no sunlight
when he's up and at it
pushing his trolley with tiny steel wheels
that squeal loudly 'cos they don't quite fit.

I've never seen his eyes
since I never called to him
nor has he ever looked up
even when he returns at night
with his trolley is full of precious garbage
piled high and nearly collapsing
way over his head.

That makes me wonder
if he really thinks about traffic
as he goes about collecting
yesterday's news
since the way his head is bowed
all he can probably see
is other people's shoes.

Sometimes he stops by the pavement
head between his knees
in his favourite squat.
His shoulders would shake and heave
like he was having a private joke
with his wrinkled feet
and you can't tell if he's panting,
or if he's crying,
or what. 

I'm just saying all this 'cos I've seen him
when I have to get up to pee
after a night of too-much booze.
I go back to sleep 'cos I'm just so tired.
Oh I feel his pain,
but since it's given for me to choose,
frankly, I'd rather not.
And God forbid if I have to walk a mile in his shoes.

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