He walks ahead of me
with his old rucksack
and a carton box
he asked from
a store owner
politely.
A couple, giggling in front
of him, stopped laughing
to cross the road, perhaps
afraid of his dirt-filled
skin.
I trace his steps
under the faint moonglow
not to say a shy hello,
but to murmur a silent prayer
that he is off to
a roof where his
family’s love
flows,
until he stops
in an unlit corner of
the almost empty
walkway, tear his precious
box and make his bed
until the next
day.
My heart, a foreigner
on this man’s motherland,
aching to
come back home,
now breaks for him,
living in his country,
but without a house to call
his own.
—
