A Worthy Adversary

He has the kind of shuffling step that says he's tried to leave his ghosts a million miles behind him, but they are always waiting just around the bend.
He stopped in front of a well done baked to a crisp in the sun garbage can, put his hand in..slowly...like he was pretty sure certain death lay in its depths,  but a tiny chance to survive shimmers so he has to try.
Fortune smiled on him, if you could call it that,  by way of an almost full Starbucks cup.
He swirled the tan liquid dubiously and smacked his lips.
The sweat that dripped down his face screamed at him to takena taste but his intestines shrank away in self-preservation.
It's the kind of hot day where you stand up too fast and swear you were dead for a few seconds and see the other side, coming to the realization that your impending destination ain't heaven.
He didn't seem to want to take that trip today, at least not by way of spoiled coffee. So he dropped the potentially lethal beverage to ferment in the festering tin.
The sweat stain on his back glared at me as she bummed a cigarette from the woman next to me.
All she could spare,  or more accurately all she wanted to spare was a half used stub, but he worshiped every drag as if it could be his last.
His forearm tattoos rippled like damp flags as he brought the dwindling cig to his lips.
I wondered who bled more? Him or the guy who gave him the scars the tattoos hid.
His beat up converse hardly looked like the proper footwear to traverse a battle field, but one look into his haunted eyes told you he's been there and done that.  

History belongs to the "winners" while the losers live in shadows painted specifically to their dimensions,  but always feel a little too small because they live between the lines.
Their prisoners uniform is the caricature mask assigned by the winning task masters.
Alcoves and dumpsters are home
The narrative is to be forever alone.
What would history look like if we gave him the pen?
You see, he isn't like the rest, dressed like Red Skelton vagabond clowns, never looking you in the eye because the shame is too heavy.
Their spirit was mortgaged off long ago, there is no living, merely existing.
A heart beat is the only thing keeping dead eyes and calloused palms open.
But not him.
He is intact. He soul is still his own even though his pride slides a knife inbetween his ribs every time his hand closes around a bit of kindness.
But he doesn't let it buckle his knees.
Strength snarls behind his bright eyes as he fixes me with a lopsided smile.
He shuffles to his next conquest,  exhausted but his head held high.  
I have the feeling that whatever it is is theoretically stronger than him,  but will make the same mistake I did and underestimate him.
I send a prayer after,
I hope that he wears the crown of what chases him and rests his tired feet on the necks of those who though he wouldn't be a worthy adversary.