I watch him stand on the corner,
his worn cardboard sign in his pack.
He holds it so we can see it,
crooked words written on it in black.
It's hard to read but I know it,
I recognize the word's help and please.
People drive by barely glancing,
he makes them all feel ill at ease.
The scratch tickets that I just purchased,
ten dollars of hope sitting there.
Wasted paper, most of them losers.
I'm used to it, really don't care.
Suddenly, when I think about him,
I'm filled with a feeling of shame.
That ten-dollar bill would have helped him,
though I know I can't shoulder the blame.
I wonder what his life was before this,
before fate turned the tide of life's flow.
Before he stepped into a future,
where the ill winds of change coldly blow.
I imagine him having a family,
mother, father, a sister or two.
A family who surely must love him,
do they know what he now has to do?
I circle the block to the corner,
reach out, put a ten in his hand.
Assuaging my guilt? Okay, maybe.
But it's right, that much I understand.
The next day I didn't see him,
most likely was forced to move on.
No longer a part of the landscape,
but my thoughts of him still linger on.
|
