It’s eleven at night
He lies down at his usual place for the night
At the doorstep of a closed Asian shop
With nothing comfortable to lay on
But that cold, hard floor.
He turned and tossed a bit
Shaking from hunger, fatigue and cold
He had not eaten for days
But still hoped for a better day tomorrow
As he drifted to a deep sleep.
At midnight
This avaricious, malicious drunk drove by
The streets were desolate void of mankind
Agitated by his own demons
With a wife patiently waiting his arrival at home
He drives by the Asian shop
And sees this poor soul huddled together
He thinks awhile and drives back
Smiling at his demons
For he had found a treasure
That would appease them for a while.
He grabs the sleeping poor soul
And does the most ungodly thing to his thin self
Too astounded and feeble to act
He just lays there feeling every pain
That came with every push.
Tears chocked him
This is too much to imbibe
This pain is too much to bear
He then passes out
Unaware of what happens to him later.
The morning comes
Bright and promising
The sun rises up
Shines and smiles down at him
As if it is mocking this poor soul.
The Asian shop workers arrive
They have to clean up the verandah
And set things in order
Before their clients come knocking
So, they have to awaken the poor soul.
He tries to sit down in vain
He can’t even stand up
He still had this terrible pain and headache
He had lost lots of blood already
But he had to move anyway
So he resolves to a crawl.
With nobody to turn to
Nobody to share with what befell him
No money or means to take him to hospital
With no family nor friends
And no food to keep him strong or alive
Yet he must live.
He has to fight against all odds
What is in the past must remain there
The determination to live must not be blurred
He still holds onto this one hope
The hope that keeps him going
That one day somehow
He will lead a better life, off the streets.
©Anita W.