I see a homeless man,

Scrounging 'round for change and crumbs,

As if the worth he finds will be enough

To keep his self from growing numb.

He sits atop cold city-cement, watching

As cigarettes flicker and waves of malt liquor flood the street;

Meanwhile, I scrutinize his glazed eyes,

The tarnished cloth over his thighs, and a past that soils his bare feet:

A past of being pricked, and pricked, and pricked,

By the thorns on the stem of a rose.

On and on it goes: sharp prick, blood drip, a little-bit of hope stripped

Till...the rose isn't worth it no more.

City-to-city, town-to-town,

The man takes his change and roams;

In search of a place with some space

He can finally call his own.

For now, he settles here:

Under the drip...drip...drip of a leaky awning,

Wedged between stacks of salt, waiting-

Hoping, to see a sign of dawning.

I hope for the same thing, yet

I know if I stop to wait,

The rose I chase will grow too far

For my mind to contemplate.

I'd soon-as slow as the passing of seasons,

Find my mind sewn to the streets,

Searching for some soft soil

To bury my fatigued feet;

Feeling, the soil compact to dirt

While it darkens my green thumb,

Taking away my feelings-one-by-one

Till my self turns cold and numb. . . .

I hand the man a dollar,

Put the change (nine bucks) in my gas tank,

And speed off to work

To reach for the rose another time.