Vagrant

in thoroughly worn
and fetid garb
he sits
on streets so cold
dank and old
his gaze so fixed
on these pavements of gold

his grimy hand
it never stops
he shakes
as the bottle drains
and he forgets his pains
the open sores
from social stains

tomorrow sees
another day inside his skin
staring down
another long day
long hours
turning corners
admiring the flowers

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