John Doe

I often heard him crying out,
As if someone would answer:
The color of his grief,
Came across in familiar terms.

He was always there,
Slumped beside his basket full of missing things:
Lacking more than a man should be,
Too far gone for human contact.

For 15 years he sat,
Staring across the asphalt fields:
Even in the Texas heat,
He stayed buttoned down with winter booze.

But as our city changed,
He was constant:
A slowly growing myth,
Pinned outside the grip of time.

He lived so long,
In my mind he was immortal:
The eccentric watchman,
Holding fast at the southern gate.

And then he was gone,
Missing from his normal perch:
His basket left alone,
Its contents scattered by the summer wind.