The Bum
by John Hopkins
No one pays him any mind
No one hears his voice,
He's just a homeless wretch
They think it's by his choice.
He wanders in his world
Picks through a pile of trash
If he finds a moldy sandwich
He'll try to make it last.
People pass him on the street,
In a jacket way too small,
They look at him with pity
If they look at him at all.
Dark clouds crowd the sky
Raindrops drown his soul
He longs for the daylight
To chase away the cold.
Does anyone remember that
He was someone's child,
Once he knew a different world
Once he knew how to smile.
Once he had hopes and dreams
Just like every one
Now he's an empty husk
A loveless, hopeless bum.
Does anyone see him
Does anyone know
He was much like you
not too long ago.
He nears rock bottom
In a seeming endless fall
Things might have been different
If anyone cared at all.
The rise of the morning sun
Chases off the bitter chill
To show a ragged heap
In an alley, lying still.
There were no calling hours
No one would have come
No one even missed
Another hopeless bum
volume 12(8)
April 15, 2008
This poem is copyright © 2007,
John Hopkins, all rights reserved.
Find more poems by John Hopkins.
The Web Projects of Sondra Ball and Mario Cavallini
