The Exhile
I wander these pathways daily,
sifting through the debris.
Some I keep, others I disregard.
My treasure consists of scraps
tossed out as garbage.
A slightly brown apple,
or a half eaten steak,
I eagerly take them both,
thinking I am rich.
My home is a cardboard box
with a bedding of newspaper.
I stand on the corner begging for coins.
With these I buy liquid sustinance,
to swill away the memories too difficult to remember.
I do not worry about tomorrow.
I live in the now.
No responsibility and no future.
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