Cardboard Box Man

Old captain’s blown off course in wintry sea;
too tired to swim,
his future’s dim,
a desperate man drowning helplessly.

He’s useless driftwood, bobbing with the tide;
the current’s strong,
he’s pulled along.
He’d grasp a proffered hand despite his pride.

No hands or hearts reach his way to console,
invisible,
dispensable.
No one is searching for the struggling soul,

awash in sea of blind humanity,
a flotsam float,
in jetsam coat,
with old news covering his vanity.

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