Unrecyclable

Once he was a running man

now he masquerades with the dust

cold with the ice-sun’s winter chills

in a coat that once belonged to somebody

that was something

meaningful

he wanders down Bird Street

with the wind

and everything else

meaningless

in between

awkward and skew

a dreadnaught to most

loved by few

but at least the plastic bags

remain colourful

and don’t turn their backs on him

wet in the gutters

crumpled along the sidewalk

the flowers of the industrial dream

the rainbows of democracy

the free market and consumerism

and everything else

which was supposed to set us free

but at least they hold the city together

with the flattened cigarette filters

yellow and white

before someone made a fortune out of them

the rite of passage

from smooth skin to wrinkles

the fruits of the hangman’s scream

despite it all

he still looks the same to me

he won’t be recycled either

I wonder if anybody ever bothered

to taste his love

or dig deep enough into him

to find out if he really cared

about this and that

and perhaps people too

“Jerry!” I holler out to him

from my balcony

his eyes turn against the sun

and then to me

I don’t know of anybody else

that looks as bad as he does

except me

on gunshot mornings

cradling the bathroom mirror

holding up the wall

but you got to look real hard

to make sure he’s got a mouth

with lips that come with it

it mostly looks just like one

of the other crooked scars

moulding his face

which mostly all turned purple this morning

with the ice in the air

all histories become fair

he got them mostly on the boats

specially the one running

from below his left ear

across the bottom of his jaw

an artistically engraved memory

reshaping his stubbles

by the swing of a gaff

“Jerry!” I call out to him again

he stops

lifts his face to me

“Sandra called yesterday…” I yell again

“…she wants you to call her back!”

his sister

who really cares

“She’s been looking for ya’ everywhere bro!”

but he doesn’t say a word

just waves a hand

because once he was a running man

now

masquerades with the dust

in a coat that once belonged to somebody

who was something

meaningful…

Conrad Kruger van den Bergh (Copyright, 2017)