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The Man At The Bus Stop
He sits in the bus cubical
Dressed in tattered clothes,
He holds a Coke bottle
Filled with something I don't know.
I can see the pain
That hides behind his eyes,
Nowhere to go
The street is his home tonight.
His hair is all matted
Doesn't look like it was brushed,
A scruffy beard on his face
Passersby never made a fuss.
His hands are all dirty
His face is too,
He sits there peacefully
As there is nothing else to do.
My heart goes out to him
As he is homeless beyond compare,
It hurts my soul
Just to see him sitting there.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
Apr.20/2005
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The Man At The Bus Stop
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