Bart Blog

There is this guy I pass each morning
on the way back from my son’s kindergarten.

He is about my age.
He works at the vegetables and food stall.

He carries this and that,
cleans up.
The clean-up guy.

About my age.

He drinks, you see that clearly.
Puffed red face, bloated fingers,
slowed-down moves.

He moves carefully
because his body does not allow him
to move any faster.

Yelled at by the owner,
a young pesky guy,
maybe his family.

When I pass the place,
he looks at me every time.

His eyes accuse me.
I don’t know of what, really.
It does not matter.
I feel bad.

Once, as I was passing by,
I noticed his face swollen and purple.

Somebody had beaten the hell out of him.

I stood still, terrified and fascinated
by the view.

I don’t know why, but I asked,

Who did this to you?

No answer.

Are you OK?

No answer.

The owner laughed and said,

Stop asking him questions,
he may feel like somebody cares.

I looked at the owner.

Did you do this to him?

Fuck off, he said.

And I left.

I have not seen the vegetables guy anymore.

It looks like I did not help.