He stank.
In the bitter day his face.
His outstretched hand were
Marked by the cold.
He shivered in his filthy
Surplus overcoat. Surplus,
That’s what he was: Surplus.
Selling himself to death
For no price at all.
Trading on my guilty excess,
My uncomfortable affluence,
To score a few cents
To buy the cheap red wine,
The cheap red wine which made the
Snubs and the disgust on the faces
of the suckers he hit up,
for a quarter – a nickel,
Fade into a happy mist.
The cheap red wine that
Made his contempt for himself , and
For those who, seeking to be rid
Of his smell and his presence,
Supported his slow suicide,
Less odious, less hurtful.

“So cold tonight God help the Rummy”,
Thought I and gave him a dime.

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Bloor and Spadina, Toronto 1976 -- but it could have been any downtown intersection, any city in N America, an day for the last 200 years, and more.

some things don't change . . .