At closing time, the last call sounds, below a waking window.
Our vagabond drunk stands in the street, again. Courageous and alone,
against the tide of traffic rushing past him, at this ungodly hour.
St. Martin, himself, shielding with half a cloak, would have bet against him.
Making his wobble way where he will stumble to the sidewalk, safely
two steps forward, one back, one to side, then round the final corner.
He won't remember the flashing headlamps, screeching tires and curses
hurled at him. He will wake up tomorrow at noon, another strange bed
with that same headache. Is someone at home praying, for him, with hope?
Life will soldier and carry on, with or without him. Being clockwork accurate
measured in marched shifts of labor and rest, while he searches for another bottle.
There but for the grace of God goes, another sleepless night.
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