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Conscience
Conscience.
The wino stood swaying in the High Street,
Just outside Boots.
His mouth opened and shut yet no words came out.
He reminded me of a broken ventriloquists dummy
Instead of a broken man.
Stains covered his worn trackie bottoms,
His grey wild hair was matted with blood.
A black eye gleamed purple and loud.
The potent pungency of his soiled life
Became evident as I neared him.
He held out nicotine stained fingers
And mouthed nothing.
I stopped.
We both just stared,
An awkward moment for me,
A lined face with missing teeth
All begged me at once.
My bottle went, I swung off down the High Street
Feeling guilty as hell.
The dummy spoke.
“God bless you.”
I flushed, the first time since primary school.
Damn him to hell.
