It’s been a few years now since this man first
occupied the pavement outside the upholsterer’s premises.
Now, even in his absence,
an unidentifiable smell lingers.

Today he is hosting pigeons.
A few are perched on the wall he leans against,
looking down on the seated scruffy-looking man,
while others bob their heads and march around his feet.

On both sides of the road I’ve observed
small stones of different shapes and sizes,
Laid out, as if calculating, counting or
keeping track of something.
I wonder what he’s working out?

He produces what looks like a small packet of biscuits.
The pigeons are his guests,
perhaps friends for the day.
Together they feast.

Greasy stains now mark the pavement he
often occupies -perhaps evidence of the meals
he has been offered by the owner of the premises
and other Good Samaritans.

For the flock of feathered friends it might
As well be a party,
judging by their frenzied movements
and scattered crumbs amongst them.

Sometimes I quietly wonder what troubles
have brought this man to this juncture in his life?
Where’s his family?
What’s his name?

His daily presence is a reminder that
we all have an identity and want to be seen,
be it by pigeons or Good Samaritans.
But perhaps our stories also need to be heard.