He sits on a park bench all alone

Shattered dreams surround him.

The only spirit left is in a bottle in nicotine stained hand.

He is old and he smells.

People walk past and ignore him, avoid him as if he wasn?t there.

But he is.

For this man was once a mothers joy

Some ones brother, some ones lover

May be even some one's Dad.

You see often the way you treat people

Only comes down to what you really see.

Taken from thoughts from a laundromat