Joe

A poem I wrote years ago. It doesn’t rhyme, the cadence is odd, but I still like it. I’m not especially fond of tramps or ‘gentlemen of the road’ as they are sometimes called. But I thought perhaps one or two might have an interesting story, or in this case lamentable. I took the picture in Barcelona, and the expression on his face makes me think this man could easily be Joe.

Joe

He didn’t have a name

His story was unknown

He stood out on the cold street

His heart held in his hand

His dirty boots and muddy jeans

And tattered cloak beside him

A rumpled hat sat by his feet

With several coins within

A small black dog

Lay faithfully at his side

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The rain poured down upon him

And he starred without knowing

At the road some yards ahead

He didn’t hear the voices

Though once they were clear and bright

He didn’t notice when they passed

Or the uncertain glances and wary eyes

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Though often passed by younger men

Never a kind word or gesture

He made them uncomfortable

His withered fingers once drove a plough

His voice once commanded respect

His broad chest, once full and proud

Was sunken now, cradling his head

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The wind tugged at his ragged clothes

Revealing worn and sun beaten skin

Tan, from summers long ago

As the brown earth he called his own

Acres of green, and black furrows

Now traced across his wizened face

As the rich fields once he knew

His eyes, deep blue pools

Now misted with a hoary rime

Another age born in his breast

His comrades lost to time

The watchman of the streets

His only companion his small black dog

His devoted friend

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He met each morning wearily,

As though the thought of another day

Was more than he could bear

And at the setting of the sun

When his gnarled limbs drew long shadows

He vanished amongst the alleyways

The labyrinth of his home

His second shadow trotting patiently beside him

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They noticed when he wasn’t there

The first and second day

His face now familiar as the buildings

The week drew on without him

And murmurs soon began

A month passed without a trace

His spot by the street still empty

It was as if a statue had been torn down

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One evening someone heard a dog

Barking in an alley

Behind an old forgotten factory

A man lay against a dirty brick wall

His familiar hat in his lap

His white skin drawn tight

Pulling hard against his bones

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His little black guardian stood over him

His body was thin, and his bark was weak

Yet he growled bravely

As they approached the body

And watched with frightened eyes

as they lifted and carried it away

When they looked back

The little dog was gone

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Police began to ask the locals

For anyone who knew him

‘I knew him,’ called one threadbare man

From out a gathered crowd

His body was bent and broken

His face hid ‘neath frosted beard

‘He shared his lunch with me one time

And gave to me his cloak.’

He rasped, his voice thick and gravelly

He coughed and wretched,

His frame convulsed

And he turned as if to go

‘What was his name, old man?’

Shouted one of the police.

A look of sorrow crossed his face

His red eyes welling

He hesitated, his gaze passing over

The unfamiliar faces

Each now fixed upon him

‘He said his name was Joe.’