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Sometimes I keep cigarets
Stashed in my back pocket.
You know, right next to the old lint
And the empty wallet
with worn
Corners and dog eared receipts.
No, I dont smoke or condone it.
I just had them there randomly
In hopes
that someone would
Ask for one, then we'd sit on
The curb, and id grab my lighter,
And we'd spark a conversation.
But I wonder why,
I wonder why I pass them by.
He said that he was homeless
For a reason beyond knowledge.
It
seems almost as if his freedom,
Is richer than the luck in finding a
Shiny penny on the street.
Yet he asks me
for my two cents,
Or lose change for food or beer.
And all he's really doing is
Simply pan handling for affection.
But
its no wonder why,
Why people pass him by this time.
Although, fate moves slower than
The clouds that always
loom over him,
And look down during afternoon naps
On his dirty park bench bed, matted hair
Stained covered clothes,
pidgeon pillows
And wet newspaper blankets.
Though, every morning there they are,
Waiting on the corner just for
a chance
To take a sad step out into traffic,
Holding their soul on a cardboard cut-out
Trying to make a house to
replace
The broken home found in their heart.
But he wonders why.
He wonders why I pass him by...
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