Too Dead For Dreamin'

I see the man hunched over and crouched in the gutter, staring at the ground with his bag on his shoulder as if there is no world around him, although there is no life but us.

And he sits as the tram rolls by with its busy and hustling passengers, working for a better life, and it blocks my view from him as if society's hope is for me not to see him.

But I see him.

I see him clearly.

And I feel him.

I feel his pain.

He departs on a push bike and I'm left to listen to the straggling strangers who've made their way into the bar for some easy living, at least here for a moment.

They chit and they chatter and the food is served and the booze flows gracefully.

They know not where they are.

They forget they are here on Earth where struggle is constant and happiness momentary.

I think about a cheap bottle of wine and a joint.

I'm at the joint bar so it may in fact be appropriate.

Another man sits on the gutter with his Slurpee and spoons it out with ease and caution.

He watches the world go by, just in the way that I am.

I remember to write.

I remember to feel and to see and to think.

I remember to be and to live.

It is life after all.

We ought to be living.

The city streets are hard and cruel but the greatest will survive.

The strongest will succeed.

And the most beautiful may stay there in those gutters, where the heart is met with shame.

They may never reach that eternal peace of a comfortable house and a stable job, but their souls will remain.

The lives of the lost ones are unstable by nature, and shall drift and be remembered by the world as something different..

Something great..

Something loveable..

Just maybe.