He practised the art of being lost,
homeless, alone and bereft.
Yet in his tinder box, memories came,
washed on the wasteland of time.
His garments were ragged and unclean.
Threadbare, without even a sign of the man he once was,
I thought this could be just you or I.
Only for a sudden quirk of fate.
Just a penny at a time.
I wander right past,
yet his heart touches me,
treasures yet to be found.
If Jesus were here, what would he say?
Condemn us for not helping,
those who have floundered
and us who have hope,
quickly we go upon our way.
Just a blanket, or hot meal would do,
a coffee to warm his insides,
or simply a moment of our time