The Churchs Tramp

His hair grew as coagulated blood His scalp perpetually trying to reach his eyebrows Skin greased and calloused His eyes soulless Yet seemed searching Everybody was not afraid of him. I gave him food once I placed it on the ground where He stood outside the church’s door He barely moved He slowly stooped It was like watching a snail’s body melt when you put salt on it I wonder if he has ever uttered a word in his life Of course I never expected him to say thanks He was still slowly bending but I knew he Wouldn’t get it unless I was not in sight. But I desired to see him get it I wanted to see if his face would ever change a bit So I just went away thinking I starved him with my presence I went back after a moment The container lied on the floor, no chicken bones. His eyebrows twitched no more But the eyes were looking…somewhere. Somehow. I was baffled, have always been. How is he supposed to live? I can’t always give him food. The priests might be busy too. The altar boys might have been annoyed by his stench So they would not get near either. My house’s far from the church. That wounded man would just keep staring at him from up the cross. I wonder if the tramp ever asked the man to come down from his cross And give him something to eat. Or did he ever contemplate on bringing him down? For Catie Lindsay's Free Verse Contest