The tattered man,
wreathed in rags,
staggered through
the gray of dawn,
tripping past the
debris of dreams
a back-alley haunt
of poverty's spawn.

Through the bins
he sorts with care
gathering cans and
outcast treasure.
Then a stop
by the local mission
supplies donuts, coffee,
and a prayer.

A rock his throne
he rolls a smoke,
enjoying the heat
of a fire--
until the boys in blue
move him along
tossing his bedroll
into the river.

He opens a vein
for the blood bank
scaring his flesh,
selling his life.
Later a beer will
help him forget
his fatherless children 
and one-time wife.

you do what you can
then you do what you must.