Bojangles

A short poem about a transient who lived in our town when I was a girl.

Bojangles

He has a face that resembles my mother’s old leather hand bag. Tanned and slack with years of abuse. His whiskered cheeks sag down to his thin lips, revealing a toothless grin.

His wide smile is frightening at first, sending a chill down my spine. Tired, bloodshot eyes reveal a deep sadness I can relate to.
I don’t smile back. He might see it as an invitation.

His clothes are dirty and have the foul smell of decay. Dirty, gray, matted hair sticks to his damp, dingy neck.

His faded, black derby hat has seen better days as it tilts sideways on his filthy head. He tips the sad hat as I approach.

The baggy pants are held with twine, while his dirty shirt is half tucked and bunched beneath the smelly dress jacket he proudly wears.
A yellow, plastic rose peeks from his breast pocket.

The toes of his shoes are missing, which he has covered with dull, gray duct tape. His dirty big toe sticks out between the fabric and the tape of his left shoe.

As I come closer he dances a little jig in hopes that I might fill his cup with change. I look away and pretend he’s not there. My heart sinks with guilt as I let shame keep me from throwing change in his tin cup.

Bowing, he waves his dingy hat and says “Ga’day, Ma’am!

By Angela Easterling

 

Author's Note

Enjoy