He is harrying his way to death
eyelids gathering darkness
his torso and purpose brood
in special cans and pavement edge.
Twenty pounds seventy five the cardboard wrote
for less home more hostel hope
and for now, he will wait and wait then take, I guess again,
this shouldering grey blanket wrap
to release from all this rain.
Remembering the passing guilt of
yesterday’s sideward step, I give him a few pounds and
this time he calls me sir, this time
he now only needs a few more to secure
tonights bed. Inspite of myself I make up the difference
I make up a meeting and I
leave in haste. He is greatful, I know this none the less for
he too does too loudly profess, that he is off now, directly,
yep to my bed, cheers mate, you a star you are, he said.
I return, a few hours on and from the otherside
I tire, as yet another lays hands to the grist
for tonight’s hostel bed, ‘cheers man, nearly got enough ’
To numb down and grip tight to what he can while he can
To spend this night barely alive to another damp and dried out dawn
until curb-side yawns for him to crumple down
and once again shake in the ground of tomorrows passers by.