Tom Wright Poet Free verse

Memoirs of a Fool

From day's early morn
to the setting sun,
He let no need 
give reason to pause.
It was get what he could
for number one,
Giving no thought
for hurt it might cause.

Collecting half spent cigarettes
that lay aground.
Day's spent panhandling,
his goal, cheap wine.
Rummaging dump sites,
for value to be found.
Then at night, a mission bed
and soup, would be fine.

Then, when time has expired,
he is found on the street.
Motionless,
as if frozen, to a bed of cobblestone.
Then to potters field,
where words will be few, his trip fleet.
For there's no one to care,
he died alone.


Who is the more pitied?
The man who lived the life,
or those who took not the time to care?

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