He’s a beggar and he’s filthy and he sits across the road.
He’s shoeless and he stumbles, from the burden of his load.
I can’t see his burden but he’s carried it for years.
I’ve never seen him cry though I know he’s shed some tears.
He sits across the road as if he’s held there by a force.
Which is really quite invisible except for him of course.
There’s a mother or a lover or both you can be sure.
Someone got abandoned and for that there is no cure.
Except my few small dollars and the ease that drink it bring.
And for a few small moments that angels sing…