Choosing Life

At a place of high foot-traffic in a
trendy, upscale area of the city which
beckons to tourists someone has left a
pile of faded clothing forcing people
to skirt the trash as they continue on
their way, chatting or eyes fixed on
smartphones or ears plugged into
music. If it were not for the fact that
a leg and a foot appended to that leg
has been thrust out and away from the
larger bundle pushed against a shop
front it might be reasonable to consider
the heap of discards simply trash some
inconsiderate fool has carelessly left
behind. But the sneaker-clad foot
moves in jerky rhythm so the body
wearing those garments remains
within. No one stops, much less
glances at the heap, studiously
averting eyes, getting on with life.
Clearly the body within the faded
garments no longer wishes to 'get 
on with life' having at some point 
decided it a wasted, worthless effort.
Whether by design or beyond volition
deciding to exist but not to live, the 
slender thread of drink maintaining 
his existence, the pity of strangers
one of whom from among the hordes
passing by halts briefly, stoops
and deposits coins in the begging
cup, himself elderly, choosing life.