What next?
As I wake up on a cold park bench
With pebbles being thrown at me
My clothes are torn and I smell a stench
Of alcohol reeking from me

Where to?
As I rub my icy blue hands
Over my hungover face and dark eyes
I wince as I try to stand
I double over and muffle a cry

What is she doing?
I hear the ***** whispers of passer-byes
With sideway glances and pursed lips
As if I was deaf and blind
To my worn out clothes and rips

?When's the time?
Asked the barista at 9 a.m.
"Living on the streets for months"
"Come on, you don't give a ****"
And I know he's smiling with smug triumph

What can I do?
I heard an old lady say from the corner shop
I smiled: "maybe a time machine would do
Or a job or a home or for the prices to drop
But you're too kind, I don't want to bother you"

So what is there to do
And what is the point
Of questions I can't answer
And people that disappoint?
Look at me, drunk and homeless
Who here did I not anger?
And look at them, fulfilled and blessed
Who's the obvious winner?
Could you ever shamelessly answer?
                                                         ­              *p.t.