I’m just a grey-haired old man,
along the pathway walking.
Bespectacled eyes coveting,
picking up a nice suntan.
I’ll buy the Big Issue from him,
he’s homeless, street sleeping.
But no one hears his snoring.
Sales are poor outside the gym.
I’m fearful to cross the street,
youths with sticks … swaggering.
The pavement wet from spitting,
and no effort to be discreet.
I’ll stop to buy the papers,
and read them while I’m waiting.
When will the bus be coming?
I dread youths and their capers.
I’m just an old man with grey hair,
anxious my time is coming.
Seems all my life’s been striving,
… at my age why should I care?