Predestiny and her child

Predestiny and her child
to a young man I walked past, having put a quid in his cup, on the Tottenham Court Road one night

-  sunburned, windswept, rain blown, snowdropped -
Wherefore this bedless litter on my streets,
  my squares,
like the Tottenham Court, Trafalgar, Leicester,
  or on Soho?
While his timid bleats go unheard,
  like a lost
shorn lamb he cowers on London’s             
  concrete meadows.
If luck’s in he’ll bleed from crownless 
  thorns, conscience 
pricked out other wages. Junk, trickling
  blood warmth
from hid stigmata, pleading alms. With
  drunken goodwill,
I ram home copper bolts into iced palms
  from 
pocket linings. Then, as every other, I stalk past.
  Carnal red,
hearts black hackney cabs carry
  us to
worship now’s trinity: Want, Desire, Lust, the God,
          Insatiety
in wine bars, pubs, nightclubs awaits.
  Tramp past 
this heap already thrown away; I’ve no want
  Or desire, no lust
for his inclusion in my homed, jobbed London.
          Jesus must
reserve seats at his God’s good right hand;   
  Here –
ghosting bright lights in our playland -
  rolls out
his predestiny. Come, find it in the pity of my
  vicious soul. 
Did his God, auld lang syne, tread over this green and pleasant land
  as mine does?
Did his God forsake His own, as I? 
          So be it.