The unshaved man with the ripped shirt and dirty fingernails
Is at the library again.
He picks up cigarette buts that were ground into the dirt
And relights them,
Hoping for a taste of tabacco to relax him.
Rejected from society yet forced to view it everyday.
No glass separates him from "normalcy,"
But there is an invisible barrier.

The people see him and move away--
To avoid the smell.
For the passersby, it's as if he doesn't exist,
A mar on a clean dish that everyone ignores.
He is lower than a ghost,
Who can at least solicit emotion.

By ignoring him, people deny him his
Humanity.
However, those who ignore him are more
Inhumane.