The Wanderer

The Wanderer

Extremely frightened of the cold,
he wandered through the street,

And though the people turned to stare,
they’d give no food to eat.

And so he sat upon the ground,
his face was lined with age,

And all the thoughts of helplessness,
filled his mind with rage.

He wondered at the reason
that no one seemed to care,

Why all that they could ever do,
was look at him and stare.

And why was it that not a soul,
would never a hand lend,

Nor would they ever give to him ,
a dollar he could spend?

“They’ve pegged me for a wine-o,
some lousy worn out bum,

Who’s sipped on charter whiskey,
and sometimes mountain rum.

I cannot pass a person,
who is walking down the street,

That doesn’t stare a hole through me,
then knock me off my feet.

And should I ever shed a tear,
the strangers wonder why.

They tell me that it’s all my fault.
there is no need to cry.

But they will never understand,
no they will never know,

That I had just as much as they,
it was not so long ago.”

As he continued on his journey,
staring down at freezing feet,

He never even saw the car,
that left him lying in the street.

And as his life was passing,
it as then he understood,

“It doesn’t matter what you have,
but if what you've done is good.

Cynthia Haltom