An elderly hobo,
digs deep in barrels of refuse.
Dining on last evenings cuisine.
Eyes racing from side to side,
chewing as if there’s no tomorrow.
Hands feverishly pushing the food in.
Mouth like a grinder in a bin
Life unkind to a pauper of the mine,
whose knees have broken down in his prime.
This life of which he fell upon,
carries him through from morning till dawn.
Day after day he lurked in streets of the city,
Looking for those who might take pity.
Every now and then reflecting the past.
A successful business- man just didn’t last.
On his final eve, when he walked to his bed,
a group of city youths, put blows to his head.
His lifeless body lay soaked in blood
He laid hidden in refuse and mud
His full body never recovered,
which seemed so unkind.
For under the refuse and rubble,
laid an old friend of mine