A Man

A drunk fell down in the street today. Stagger-trip-stagger, down he went. Landed on his side, legs dangling over the curb, feet in the road. Passing cars slowed and swerved.

I noticed the old-fashioned black shoes, all scuffed up. Bony ankles coming out of frayed hems and those hands, all wrinkly and dirty and lolling about.

I noticed the slurring and swearing, the white beard, all yellow around the mouth. The jacket pocket bulging and the neck of a green plastic bottle sticking out. I could see its contents sploshing around inside.

Glancing back, I saw a woman drop her shopping bags on the ground like an exclaimation mark. She rushed forward and bent down to scoop up his legs. She swung them up and over the double-yellow lines and rested his feet back on the pavement.

Then she was kneeling down next to his head, brushing straggles of his hair out of his face. I could see her lips moving, she was speaking to him.

I stood there looking; a drunk on the ground and a woman on her knees.
It was as though she hadn't seen the dirty skin, the black nails, the stringy hair. It was as though when she looked, she only saw a man.