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.
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