Catfish Man

[Obi Adisa Asad]

Catfish Man

He boarded the 94 bus as he always did

In the morning. Hair was covered in a

Dingy skill cap that was old and worn out.

The Raiders logo had fallen off and there

Was a hole at the top. His clothing was

Stained with mud and urine and reeked

Of vomit. His teeth were yellow with

Plague and decay, most of them were missing.

His beard, full of dirt and lint, dreaded

Over creating two long locks resembling

Catfish whiskers. His skin wrinkled and thin,

Sunk in so much one could see his skull and

Age across his weary face. He handed the

Bus driver a dirty, half-torn dollar, took his

Transfer, and made his way to the back of the

Bus . . .

Where I sat.

I tried not to stare at him as he slowly sat

Down, but I couldn’t help myself. My

Eyes were transfixed with simultaneous

Disgust and awe. His appearance was

Repulsively hypnotic. His dreaded beard

Swayed back and forth like pendulums

Attached to his face as the bus bustled

And rocked up 7^th street.

His eyes were dancing flames that piqued

My curiosity. I was drawn to those flames

I drowned myself in his fire as it burned

Exposing the transient mystique of this man.

This man . . .

This man who has a son who is married with

Three children. And those three children

Have never laid eyes upon their father’s shame,

Their grandfather, who sat across from me

Muttering incoherently to himself as if speaking

To the ghosts that haunt him still. This man who

Was stricken with single parenthood after his

Wife suddenly died. This man who had no

Choice but raise his son alone and when he had

A nervous breakdown, social services came and

Took his son away from him. This man who could

Only see his son through a court appoint guardian.

This man, whose heart disease and delirium

caused him to lose his son, his home, and

Eventually his sanity.

I listened to him. I listened to his ramblings

As if he were speaking directly to me.

“I told my son not to marry that woman.”

He still thought of his son, I wondered if

His son ever thinks of him. His crusted

And calloused hands wrestled in his pocket,

Searching for loose change . . . there was

None.

A look of sorrow overcame him and like

Many times before, this nomad felt pain.

The same pain he felt when his son grew

Up to hate him and have him committed

The same pain of knowing that life on

The streets was more humane than life in

A corrupt mental institution. He’s been

Homeless ever since.

As I exited the bus, I reached into my

Pocket and pulled out four pieces of hope.

Each piece was a shiny coined lesson that

He taught me. To love, tolerate, cherish,

And respect our elders. He looked up

At me with broken eyes glazed over with

Tears and said “Why ain’t you come

See me no more, son? Why ain’t you come?”

I placed my hand on his shoulder. He nodded.

He nodded as though he know I had to leave.

I smiled at him and exited the bus.

Thank you, Catfish Man . . .

I’ll be sure to give the message to your son.

Poet's note: This piece is a little old. I revised it only a little. I wrote this eight or nine years ago I think.

[Q]

Man, you most definitely have the pulse of the city down here. I've done similar things, just watched the homeless and wondered what happened. I've concocted little vignettes in my head as to how they got there.

Excellent. I'd love to hear it spoken.

[JANAJ-YANAY]

His eyes were dancing flames that piqued
My curiosity. I was drawn to those flames
I drowned myself in his fire as it burned
Exposing the transient mystique of this man....
oh yeaah brutality of life is sometimes astouding !!

[Minerva]

This is great. I like how you speak of the corrupt mental institution without hesitation. ;)
Good work! :)
Best!
Claudia (Minerva)