A Gift

He is a huddled shadow, for what colors can a dying man display? There is no safety in his bottle anymore. His dark brown gaze with glassy desperation awaits the mercy of strangers. In this city, with all its wealth, he is one in a thousand. He could be saved, but try and stop the masses from moving. Their heads are all aimed towards destinations. They shuffle over one another as it is, barking and pushing like cattle in a chute. They are unconcerned with ANY nameless face. They are without mercy in a group and he is but part of a weakened fringe in their eyes, a sickened homeless straggler. Today I chose to stop, to affix meaning to my memory of his existence, perhaps to imagine he looked familiar or that I knew his name. As I looked upon him I could suddenly hear singing from the Metro hall. This raised him from his lethargy and he began to speak. As I was nearest to him, he turned to ME and said "Thank you for the music". In truth, it was he that brought the music to that moment. I only stopped because he was there. He pulled me from the rushing day and led me to a quiet shore just long enough to listen.