Rob
is a slob,
they say.
Doesn't have a job,
they say.
Never cuts his hair,
they say.
Too lazy
to get out of his own way,
they say.
But they're wrong, you know.
Rob
is OK.
He feeds the birds
(gives them names) ,
potters about
his tumbledown house
contemplating
(ruefully)
the jobs
he'll never finish.
Sits quietly
strumming his banjo
listening to his voices.
Rob
is happy.
An unlikely contemplative
whose wild and woolly hair
belies a thoughtful soul,
destined
to leave
a gentle footprint
on the planet.
Alison Cassidy
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-unlikely-contemplative/
