George
He hand-hefted garbage cans,
Dumping the debris onto a truck.
He was one of life's "also rans"—
A boozer, a loser, absent of luck.
His name was George, some say.
But "Wino" was his "given" name.
Gulped a gallon-plus every day,
Yet he seemed reasonably sane.
Years without protein did him in—
Bones were as brittle as glass.
He fell one day when drunk as sin
And collapsed into a mangled mass.
I wonder who picked up the pieces
Of a life that had gone all askew.
No brothers, no aunts, no nieces
No one to claim George's residue.
That fact should not come as news.
While he lived, none came to his aid.
It wasn't for the absence of clues;
They marched in the "me" parade.
Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2015
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