| Subject: The Downtrodden of Society |
Author:
The Guy
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Date Posted: 19:45:59 03/21/01 Wed
He spends his nights on the park bench,
With papers for a blanket,
Like a peeling birch tree,
Fallen and dead.
He spends his days under the mighty pine,
Feeling the rain,
From the slate sky,
That he has felt all his life.
Sitting,
With his little cup out,
Watching the world,
Holding it out whenever someone walks by.
Praying for the ever shiny quarter,
Or even that,
Ever so rare,
Dollar bill.
Nowhere else to go,
But across,
Down as far as possible,
And no way up either….
Finally his little cup has enough money,
Walking to the corner deli,
He feels all the stares,
And sees all the people moving to get far away from him.
Getting a sandwich,
The man at the counter carefully counts out all the change,
Untrusting,
Once, twice, three times he does it.
He hates it when people do this,
It makes him just a rat,
Searching for a some food,
And trying not to be devoured.
Staring into the dark pavement,
Eating his sandwich,
The first in a while,
He thinks that he could be so much more.
A college degree,
Now worth nothing,
An inheritance,
Now gone..
All he has left is this suit,
And this cup,
And the second half of this sandwich,
And nothing else.
Pushed down by the winds of society,
Tried to stand tall like a great oak,
But just fell like a broken down shack,
And now stuck in the mud.
And so he keeps his daily life,
Of begging,
And thinking,
And barely getting by.
And living on his hope…
Because that’s all he really has,
Is hope.
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