Tramping his usual route, he limps wildly
and reeks of stale sweat and cigarettes.
Calloused fingers caress
the contours of fences, walls and hedgerows.
Approaching, we grimace,
self satisfied. Or, worse still, shrink away:
his grotesque pock-marks and ill-fitting wellies
We prefer him on the ground,
along with the littered beer cans, discarded chewing gum and other trash
that we choose to ignore.
There, we may avoid his gaze, his offending entreaty,
and sip our coffee