Gandhi's shadow-- edit 2

[ChristopherSea]

Every Tuesday evening at 9:10,
I try not to dirty my jeans
on the dented car door
streaked by the dust of your job
when you come to drive me home.

Every Tuesday at 9:20,
at the intersection of the tramway
and Boulevard Gandhi,
we see him weave between the cars
waiting for green underneath the bridge.

Shaded leathered skin stretches
over crooked nose, around a jutting jaw,
blackened by life's drop-kicks
and unsuspected parasites.

Wraiths of defeat besiege his frame,
an omnipresent boundary
seen in the shadows of abuse
that circle stoic eyes.

He doesn't stretch out hands
simply lifts a finger pleading
one?

Cloudy,

My first thought, on a quick drive by, is to begin this poem with the second stanza. It would then open up with that grand portrait of your street-Mahatma and his urban setting. This is not to say that I don't like the first stanza. In fact, I like it a lot, but I would reserve it for another poem./Chris