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Poem

A sensitive man, whose mouth is stenched from booze
scrapes any bronze penny from the sidewalk or street,
or cuddles under the News Paper Times for a snooze,
and eyes the people who scorn in anger or pity in grief.

But as soon he awakes to hint of morning or until the sun
rises from an extravagant navy blue to the peachy pink of light,
And admires it like the bees to honey and child to games of fun.
But as soon a kid walks on cooly by to catch his sight

The kid clears his throat and spews his spit to the homeless man's rag.
It was his protector for thirty years, his father like object, and mother of his life,
his warmth of day. It was all he had.
And anger emerges under his rough dirtied skin into a sneer.

The homeless man, a sensitive, pure hearted man, curses him off
to the roads and said,

"Its boys like you who make a living dread!
I appreciate what I got, but you dont sir. I bet you would better off Dead! Your dread is
not the same as mine. You're emotionally disturbed! SO here's your gift from me, for you
are one who needs it the most!"

And he spits right back, splat. Right on his cheek.
No emotion to the kid's eye, a knot in his throat,
grown vulnerable, dismayed and terribly weak.
But not to even apologized, he wiped the insult off with his coat.

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