He walked each day the same,

Picking around

Inside his broken, frameless mind

For bits of comforting,

Pushing his feet

With care among free leaves

On pavements his for the walking

Where no one stopped him with talking :

A hatless, witless man.

He knew the shabby parts

Picking around:

The tree-wreck of a rusty car,

Nettles and rags and flattened tins,

The mouldy mats

That leaned box-stiff and damp

In ditches, his for the taking.

Elsewhere some hand would be making

New things to rot for him.