A Rag Picker

Sometime after mid night, it had rained Putting out summer’s sultry heat The sky had its face washed clean And wiped the grime off Earth’s soiled feet The dawn is quietly breaking Night lights still glimmer here and there The blue firmament remains cloudless And cool is the mild blowing air The sleeping town is slowly waking up And at this transitional point I look out into the street To see a sight that shall never disappoint Along the road moves one, ragged and withered His discolored white hair left unkempt With hunch back and drooping shoulders The marks Time has left of the hard years spent Though age has drained his life sap away He has a firm resolve never to beg His frail body supported on a stick Serves as a veritable third leg With his staff, he perseveringly stirs Every heap of abandoned rubbish Indiscriminately piled on either side of the road Hunting for trinkets lying hidden in the trash A rag picker with a sack on his back Picking up today’s treasure From yesterday’s discarded trash Things, for him ‘priceless’ beyond measure With complaints none He faces life and its trials Never losing the glitter in his eyes Though a loner in life’s dark isles I ask myself, why every day I routinely look for this man who limps along And I get a quick answer ‘He helps you turn your sobs into a song’