He’s a digger with a pickaxe,
He looks handsome.
women call him a marvel.
everytime they’re around,
he loses his marbles.
He’s getting himself dirty,
trying to make a living out
of some rubble.
He gets himself drunk,
falls and stumble.
He sees me walking tired,
watches me, strolling dog-tired and wishes;
he too could fall and stumble.
I know how this life could be like–to a man
who’s unable to control his emotion upheavel.
He does things but,
cries whenever questioned.
I’ve come to think that he should maybe,
communicate with eyes like he always does.
I’ve asked people to help me help him but,
none of them seems too keen to listen.