Odder People

We never saw his face.

We stood behind him

in the queue at the post office.

His brown coat had a black patina

from laying on pavements

and doorways and wherever else

he lay his head.

When he reached to take his money

from the cashier, I saw that his hands

were patinated with pavement

like the rest of him.

The cashier looked at him,

her upper lip lifted high and tight,

a sour sneer,

as though she had tasted him.

He said something to her.

She handed him some money.

His business complete, he stood there,

not moving away,

stationary, awkward.

He looked at the cashier

for a few unspeaking beats, and then

he shuffled away in his odd

black shoes, tied round with laces,

not laced, just held in place.

When he had gone, the cashier

reached for the hand cleanser.

She cleaned both hands, twice.

“I think he wanted to talk,”

I said to her, when it was our turn.

She looked at me as though I was

filthy, too.

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