Maybe Tomorrow

His ragged coat betrays his need for pride.
No sadness can those haunting brown eyes hide.
I look into his face and see his soul,
for life for this man sure did take its toll.

He shuffles in his weather-beaten shoes.
He grips his bag for fear that he will lose
the contents he has built throughout the years.
Those treasures gained through grind of sweat and tears.

His old grey hair is matted, full of knots.
From grime, his face is riddled with sore spots.
No pampering for this man, that’s quite clear;
perhaps a bath in shelters twice a year.

Through holes in gloves his filthy fingers poke.
What tales we’d hear if this man ever spoke,
for on his left he wears a ring of gold,
but sadly it’s a story never told.

Had he a wife? I guess we’ll never know.
In pockets, pictures he will never show.
He gazes at them often, face so sad,
remembering a life that he once had.

A little dog, his only source of bliss.
That dog affords this man some happiness,
within a world that holds no hope of light.
Seems no one cares about this old man’s plight.

I see him every day on his park bench,
and hurry past for I can’t stand the stench.
A pile of old newspapers are his bed,
his tatty bag a pillow for his head.

For six long months I’ve watched this man each day.
I bow my head and always rush away.
I make excuses why I never care,
and why I never have the time to spare.

Perhaps I have a meeting and I’m late,
or have a prior engagement that can’t wait.
My red dress is designer, can’t get soiled.
In truth, it’s just more likely that I’m spoiled

Some day I’ll stop and talk to this poor man,
and somehow help him any way I can.
For now, I’ll just ignore his look of sorrow,
And tell myself I’ll care – maybe tomorrow.