To America: Regarding the Wanderer

He’s by the side of the road
with a typical sky over his head.
He’s hungry, so he dines

on air and traffic exhaust.
It’s getting dark so he
shuts down his eyes,

starts listening. Wind’s
blowing cold so he thinks
himself a blanket.

He has no family
except for ground level.
No ancestors but night.

But he makes friends,
with rocks and grass mostly.
And with what people

who aren’t his friends, discard.
And he has no enemies.
Not even the ones

who don’t even know he’s there.
His voice is little used.
But there’s songs that

go on inside him.
And his religion is whatever
each moment in time provides.

He has no money. But he’s
not dead either. He’s alive
and it’s not costing you a thing.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Chronogram and Clade Song. Read other articles by John.