What do you see when you look by the side of the road?

Sonata in Death Minor
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Shuffling along tattered, littered bank, where life’s river flows,
Waiting for red taillights, raises cardboard sign, daring stranger’s kindness,
That’s all he’s got left to stay alive, prostituting hope just to survive,
Wonders how many eyes see him, denying he exists?
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Pauper’s poet, barely noticed, roadside prince of rambling rhyme,
Dignity denied, will work for food, or if you have spare change,
Begs one last chance, taste a cheeseburger, wash it down with wine.
God bless, just a homeless vet, even pennies help.
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Shivers under overpass when chill rains sting, because homeless
Shelter’s too crowded, too confining, with no opportunity to sing.
Can’t ply his trade, get a dollar here, a quarter there, sixty-seven cents,
Pretty soon adds up to real money, if you count bottle deposits.
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Promise of Salvation Army’s band wormed its way past well-tended cobwebs,
Wakened what once might have been faith in afterlife, goodness of man,
Hard to stay awake though, through droning buzz of self-righteous pap,
Even if it did mean a hot meal, dry bed, still weren’t as friendly as his road.
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Chin’s up, though, as he musters all the pride he can, he’s got a new job,
Selling flowers to would-be lovers, the occasional “forgive me” bouquet.
Still, Mercedes, Miatas, even Chevy goddamn pickups look away,
Don’t anyone realize he’s trying to make an honest living again?
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Keeps forgetting when he’s supposed to show up, is it Monday, Friday?
He’d ask his friends, if only he could find them, remember their names,
Until he’s told he’s not reliable, he’s had his chance, but he’s just another
Friggin’ derelict: here’s your pay, rummy, don’t think about coming back.
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Back out on hot road, where freedom’s bell rings and God bless America.
Land of opportunity, where there’s a will, there’s always a way to get by,
But better not take too close a look by highways’ side, in sepia tinged alleys,
Where dead men dance by themselves, while we pretend to look away.
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