Scraps

Artist Unknown

Scraps
By John Trent

Late day’s gloom misty and gray
A cloak of fog lay heavy in the air
Street lamps burn an amber haze
Glistening lights on the sidewalk squares

The old man speaks, nobody listens

Thoughts are buried, head hung low
Haggard his face, hands leathery and torn
Hope long drained from this broken old man
With tattered clothes and black boots worn

The old man begs, nobody listens

His hunger constant, a familiar old foe
Scavenging for scraps for the day’s simple fare
Invisible he begs for some change or more
People ignore with nothing to share?

The old man dies, nobody listens

Why were his clothes so tattered and torn?
From where did he come, did he feel life's shame?

How did he live on a bench or a box?
When did he die and what was his name?

The old man's gone, we forgot to listen?

We walk past the suffering so callous and cold

Forever embracing humanity's shame and lies

Their questions simple, their answers untold

When did we stop caring and hearing them cry?