On Seeing a Wino on a Park Bench

 

He is but a tramp to the passing eye
Like litter blowing in the wind
We think of him as we do of his empty wine bottle
As rubbish that should be binned.

But... is he in the right place
Like that wine bottle accompaning a meal
Enjoyable, and a pleaqsure to know
Even though of him we feel

Nothing but revultion,
And the vomit drips from his chin
We see but the wino, the alcoholic
Not the human within.

Reviews

[Sean Allen]

Ah, this reminds me of a man named Cornelius I met once in Atlanta. There was alot of human inside of him!

[S. A. Venus]

this piece imparts both humanity and truth, well done and best wishes.

[Gandré]

I like your heart, how you always pick up some people living on the edge of society, you always do it. This is wonderful, but of course it's the human under the skin and he needs our respect, too. We are not in his skin, we can't know why he fell so deep. Wonderful poem. You are very talented.

[Donald Meikle]

yes tiz all in the eye of the beholder.