Cloud Singer

What happens to the people we don't see?  The ones society pretends doesn't exist. 

Today I saw another homeless man on the street. He had such a jaunty way of walking and seemed to be talking into a cell phone.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his jaunt was due to a wheeled bag stuffed full of fabric, treasures and wrapped up in torn plastic.  It wasn't till he passed that I noticed his head was cocked to help support his arm that held another bag over his shoulder.  Not to speak into a phone.  He was singing though.  That didn't change.  He had on a good coat and a good pair of shoes.  I wonder how lucky he saw himself to have such.  I wonder how unlucky anyone around me on their morning commute saw him, if they saw him.  Did they see him as I did at first and then dismiss him?  Just another guy crusing down the street jawin' away to someone else. I wondered as I always do, what his story was.

How did he get here?  Where did he come from?  Is he a jazz inspired, Kerouac lovin' throwback to the hitchhiking 50's?  Is he a man, who can create sculptures out of air and has followed his muse to a state with copious amounts of wide open air space to work in.  Maybe he is the creater of the gorgeous clouds that keep me sane in this state. He sings them into being.  The air condensing and forming at his notes.  His voice caresses them into shapes.  Cloud Singer has no fear of the Arizona heat, he calls the moisture to him and revels in the bit of shade he can afford.  He shares with those around him, and leans under trees whenever he can find one.  This is the only man I've seen who walks under a cloud of his own making and he is at peace.

Maybe that jaunty walk is not due to the wheeled bag, maybe that is due to him finding a place so perfectly suited to his talents.  A place where he can sing of his joy and the clouds slowly trundle after him in the sky.

Morning Drive

I watched a man walking toward me on the street today.  He had a soft easy step with his hands in his pockets and arms akimbo.  He seemed so loose and free moving.  I noticed there was something wrapped around his neck.  Scarf? Handkerchief? Hands!  He had a child on his back.  Legs slipped through his arms and arms wrapped around his neck.  The child's face was pressed into his neck.  I could almost hear the child breathing against him.  As the man passed me by, he changed.  The step which was so carefree and happy, slowed and became more of a shuffle.  Jeans torn, layers of sweaters and the child was a backpack. The ends of the arm straps tucked into his front pockets with his hands.  He looked at me solemnly.  I felt so guilty, as if I broke his dream. By simply by seeing him, I brought him back to the reality where his child is gone.  Gone somewhere he is unable to follow.  I broke his gaze, and he continued moving on.  In my rearview mirror, I saw him straighten.  Saw the step grow easy and loose again.  The bag shifted and the child murmured something in his ear. 

We were both happier then.