Malady of the Unknown

Stern faced and threads of meager means Hands worn and thirty Eyes that have lost their shimmer The legs that he stands on, getting thinner Striving for bread? Or really a sweet bottle of wine All in good time All in good time As he begs for a dime Crowded streets, crowed faces Most carefree in their hidden spaces Blackened nails The scent of sweat and booze They cannot bear to stare into his face No, for they fear they may wake one day in the same state- of retched disrepair Or is that they just don’t care? I wonder does he feel any hope? As he goes about jostling his carriage of left over junk Rain falls on the crowded city streets As they look down all you hear is his shuffling lonely feet