Compassion

The wandering lonesome roam About the early morning streets; And on evening avenues. Those forgotten feral few, Seeking meals they cannot buy ‘Mongst the refuse of the day. Those great unwashed in tatters, Of whom it does not matter, Limp empty toward their lairs Wearing faces of despair Seeking out a junkyard fire Or dark place beneath a stair. Half-bent, with rancid odor, One stands upon the corner With a battered coffee can In a grimy, outstretched hand. Strollers stare past his rheumy eyes, Searching from their sunken sockets, And walk by with withheld sighs Lest guilt should pick their pockets. Compassion costs a quarter For the man upon the corner. But it’s cheaper without the price If they can avoid his lice.