Enter a man with muddied boots. His hair
a nest of rats where once a mane had been.
Tucked within the lines of his face were seen
a life. Short and painful. Some would say fair.
A picture falls from his pocket. I dare
to guess; his wife and his child caught pristine.
In their prime when he was part of a team.
Its edges worn, yet still handled with care.
Eyes flash with memories too hard to tread
He buries them; no time to make amends.
He chokes back tears as he asks for his bread.
Brought low by layoffs, sickness, and the dead;
Soon dawn would bring new batches of his friends.
We help each to food and a warm clean bed.
