Whiskey Sour
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Bucket full of coins and lint
From pockets of the passing
He sits there staring silently
His sign board does the asking
Truth be told he only wants
Money for his drink
His sign expresses honestly
What the passers by all think
Why Lie, Need Booze
is written on his card
But, to look this man right in the eye
Is really something hard
He doesn't smile, is dressed for warmth
Even though it is quite warm
I don't think it's for the weather
It's for his own internal storm
That rips apart inside his soul
A storm that no one's seen
It knocked him on a wayward course
He lost who he might have been
We'll never know just who he was
We only know him at this hour
For those who pass him here each day
He's known as Whiskey Sour
He sits there with his plastic tub
Watching people on their way
Whiskey Sour thanks them kindly
No matter what they say
A victim of his own devices
Or a victim of all ours
No matter where you walk and look
You will all meet Whiskey Sours.
Copyright © Roger Turner | Year Posted 2018
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