Homeless Poem by Matt Mooney

A sleeping bag his home:
thrown around him,
seated on a city bridge;
his only company there
footsteps of indifference
making him invisible,
chilling him as they pass
and the river down below
on its way to Dublin Bay.
Used to staying silent,
catching now and then
snatches of what is said
in the evening rush,
left out of all that is,
despair gone to the bone;
no hope of good times,
his hand holding out
the hard to fill paper cup
and I drop in a coin
to hear the echo of it
sounding a happier note
in the hollow of his heart.