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.
