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.