He is just sitting nearby the corner in the metro
With dust stained all over his outworn T-shirt
There is much inside his plastic bag
With newspapers, squeezed cans, slices of bread
Everything he collected in streets
He is just hiding in the corner in the metro
With a desperate soul fooling the city
There is nothing else he brings
But solely the miserable eyes
With despair and disguise in this darkened face
He is just roaring those crammed passengers
Without a deadline to endlessly wait for
Strive for his next slice of bread
Or to pick up his own dignity and fortune in hand
Remarks:
In the metro from Redwood City to San Francisco, I met crowd of homeless weirdo. Sitting with them I neither feel uncomfortable nor surprised. Rather, I’d acknowledge their perfect portrait for my creative writing materials.
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