Aqualung Revisited

Shabby with unkempt hair,
Seeing with an eerie stare.
Tattered clothes and toothless grin,
Excepting not a single sin.

Shopping cart proceeding.
Wonky wheel impeding.
Filling up with junk,
But never in a funk.

Picking things from here and there,
Scraps of metal, hunks of hair.
In the cart they all are placed,
Anointed objects. All are graced.

People scorn and people jeer.
Scruffy man all loath and fear.
He takes his treasure to his layer.
Sprawling yard where he prepares,

To add to his artistic vision,
Behind closed gates and derision.
Welding, sculpting and molding still,
Artist's vision begins to thrill.

Garbage from the street assembled,
Into work of art resemble,
Carousel of crazy thought.
Artists vision, expensive bought.

Adults see the artist not.
Neighbor children always caught,
By magic junk and happy sounds,
The artist makes for them all crowns.

The children play upon his art.
Appreciate his shopping cart.
Bringing treasures from the road.
Reap the joy of artist sowed.

And if among the happy ones.
One is picked amongst the sons,
To stay behind and play alone,
And touch the magic stone.

He may feel odd at first,
But will return to quench a thirst.
He will not tell a single friend.
He is convinced they do pretend.

The shabby artist creates for him,
A shabby climb upon the gym.
And makes him feel he's not ignored,
By parents he has but implored.

Shabby artist creates the joy.
Families ignorant of the ploy.
Invisible to passers by.
Ohhh, if only they would try,

To open eyes and open hearts.
Be their children's shopping carts.
Recognize the artist's skill.
Recognize the children's thrill.

Stop walking streets as if were blind
To artist's gifts to those defined,
As uncared about as he is.
Seen by him as his.