By the street, next to a sign on the sidewalk, a drunk does preach,
His breath reeks of desperation, a destitute, institutionalized patient,
Who escaped the medication for self-deprecating alleviation,
From problems his degrading mental state creates.
I wander by wondering if my spare change will help,
Or if my charity will further his thirst for compounding the problem,
Ten cents dropped in a cup in exchange for his two,
On matters of life, love, salvation, spirituality, and divine truth,
I walk away into a fading day looking for a recognizable street name.
I can't shake the image from my mind of the man on the corner,
With his quest, a life purpose, played out to passing guests,
He will probably get ran off into oblivion soon,
By a police officer tired of the complaints from pedestrians,
While I find my way back to my parent's house for a warm dinner.
I wonder if he has a place to stay or just roughs it,
I wonder if a shelter lets him bathe and take a shit,
I wonder if he knows the city or if he appreciates the pity,
Given to him by the passers-by who think he is an eyesore,
I wonder if he has lost his way or if preaching on a corner is what his God
Made him for.