I-Gen

I saw him not that long ago

A tired, old man standing on a street corner watching the traffic

A paper coffee cup in his hand

It was early morning and he had turned his collar to the chill

His lips muffled in a scarf that wound about him, soft and mute

His one free hand stuffed in a pocket, his coat hanging to his knees

Something about the old man’s wandering eyes made my gaze linger

He seemed a bit mindless, compliant even

As if he would obediently head north if someone came along and told him to

St. Thomas Aquinas Church stood behind him

Adobe yellow with patches of peeling paint revealing an underbelly of muddy grey

A brass statue of half-man, half eagle stood in the church courtyard, poised to spring into the sky like an un-tethered arrow

Bold and full of purpose

When all of a sudden this old man came crashing down like a giant oak

The one hand still caught uselessly in the overcoat pocket

-       Disloyal, treacherous thing

He fell hard on his shoulder

Rolled right into the gully of curb and street

His jaw smashing against the asphalt with such a crack that it rent the earth

I heard him cry out in surprise and then watched as, bloodied, he

scrambled for his gushing coffee cup,

As if that was what mattered

As if that was what was at stake

Just then the city bus pulled up in front of my stop

Blocking my view

Oh well, I thought, not my business

I picked up my backpack, fed the coin machine

And then slumped into the plastic bucket seat bolted to the floor

Ear phones in, scrolling Facebook

The bus headed east