A Man of the Road
Walking slowly along the curb of a footpath next to main road staring at the ground,
Swooping every few seconds to feel the smoked dog ends to see if they are intact, dry,
His shabby greasy clothes make him look like an old scarecrow escaped from the fields,
If dry dog end is over half inch his shaking hands pull out a match box and lights it.
He is walking towards the Salvation building to have a hot cup of tea and whatever else,
His pockets are now full with cigarette ends and the dirt on them he smells of old fags,
His rotten trousers with holes at the knees and split up the backside he is done caring,
Wearing a black tee shirt that he has not changed for years clings onto his filthy back.
Finding real treasure a cigarette that is nearly whole he smiles a dirty line of teeth,
The lines have gaps in them where some have rotted and cracked, literally bit the dust,
Brown lips as he smokes his dog ends to the very end, black scabs where he went too far,
On cooler days his nose drips unattended as he has no rags or no care to wipe it clean.
His shoes are odd and worn down to nearly nothing looking at the soles they have holes,
Along time ago he had underpants but they faded and wore away with time, skids and all,
Go back fifty years he was some mothers son who had high hopes for him in his manhood,
He had friends sometimes did well at school, where did this poor soul go so very wrong.
Copyright © Terry Trainor | Year Posted 2013
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