I wonder how you do it, you master of deception, how you
Sit at that intersection day after day
After day. I shake my head at you,
Wondering if your butt ever begins to hurt
From sitting on that plastic crate for twenty-three hours.
Holding up a sign asking for another bill must be exhausting--
Physically, mentally, emotionally.
God bless, you say. God
bless. Beg and plead just a little bit more, hope for another reaction
Another empty stare. Another look at your
crutches and dirty clothes
And watch your life pass you by in the shape of cars.
Should I feel bad for not putting a donation towards your
Drug habit? Well, maybe,
You aren’t one of them.
Maybe you’re hoping for a future or
Maybe, your future is in your car
Parked up the street behind that old shack,
Hidden enough to keep the secret.
Your dirty needles and spoons in the glove compartment,
Along with stashes of money underneath the seats,
Really come in handy, don’t they?
I could be the one who’s wrong, ‘cause,
if you’re not a first-class hustler, you’re helpless
I hope that money goes toward some nuggets and a soda,
But I doubt it ever will.