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The New York |
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City winter comes in cold grey sheets of steel |
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The numbness in his hands and feet is all that he can feel |
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Alcohol and sterno turns a doorway to a bed |
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And the ghost of who he might have been lives on inside his head |
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In a canyon made of brownstone on a sidewalk icy black |
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He wanders nearly barefoot with his righteousness in tact |
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A man of many mansions in a cardboard box replete |
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He lies sleeping with an angel while his heart pretends to beat |
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The wind blows down on |
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Lonely Street like an ice pick through the air |
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Midst the |
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Sunday times and coffee grinds and wino's in |
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Times Square |
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Five flights up on |
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Easy Street you know she's safe and warm |
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Way down low neath a foot of snow he's riding out the storm |
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I offered him my winter coat politely he refused |
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Like an educated man he spoke with words |
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I seldom use |
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He said I don't need pity for these choices are my own |
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He bowed his head just slightly and quietly moved along |
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Its not like he's a victim of the homeless life he stalks |
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Nor helpless to get back across the fine line that he walks |
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Riding out the storm means yesterday's already spent |
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Tomorrow don't mean nothing it won't even make a dent |
