Half a Man, Twofold

Half a Man, Twofold

I saw half a man from my window today. My office overlooks downtown Detroit, the remnants of a city, less than half what it was in its formidable youth. Imposing smokestacks, when smoke bred life, remarkable architecture, when stone protected character, brick paved roads, when cars carried futures, burned out storefronts, where hungry souls beg forgiveness and streetbound eyes, tight hands in pocket, keep loose change from chiming hope to the hungry. I saw half a man from my window today. No chime in his pocket. No pocket, but so much to give. Character and courage no stone can embrace. He gave to those who gave him nothing , leaving them with a full heart, but emptiness below. I saw half a man from my window today. Laying flat on his belly on a wooden bed, with wheels empty of future. A blanket where his hips should be, warming a faint memory of yesterday, and covering mechanical entrails that keep him alive. Chin propped on a dirty pillow, eyes dead, ahead, arms by his ribs, for that’s where it ends. Trailing hands pull towards his chest the wheels that move him. Traffic waits through two lights, red says stop, but he’s blind to defeat. A rope dangles up front, where a strange hand pulls him from tar covered pavers. I saw a man with half a body, but a heart for two, and dignity so large it had to be pulled by a rope. Streetbound eyes, tight hands in pocket, keep loose change from chiming hope to the hungry. I’m two stories away, I cannot help, though I think of pulling his olive branch to salvation, but all I do is write about it – its just not enough.