Saturday, April 16, 2011


He sits there on the corner of Burrard and Georgia
Withered hand clasping an empty Timmy's cup -
Holding it out for your generosity.

Long grey beard.
Dirty denim jacket.
Shoulders rounded as if to shelter himself from the impending storm.

There is no sound.
No clinks or jingles from the coins that should be falling together.
His cup sits abandoned.

The storm is coming now.
A storm of people.

      Hurrying along in Gucci suits.
      Multiplying wealth and building towers.
      Looking ahead for there is a job to do.
      No time for distractions.

      Laughing and talking.
      Canucks jerseys rubbing shoulders with others.
      Forging ahead for there is a game to win.
      No time for distractions.

      Shuffling and walking.
      Running ahead to get ahead.
      He lifts his gaze and sees it all.

How he wishes he was among the mob.
Carried along in the purposeful momentum of living.
Lost in thought and history, pain and brokenness, memory and madness.

No time for distractions.
The Timmy's cup sits empty.
There is a job to do.

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