Saturday, 31 October 2015

The Waiter

The brown fedora
With its multifaceted feather
Sits not on my head
But the cold concrete

I shelter outside
The department store
My survival depends
Upon your charity

You make of your life
A burdened misery
You deem of your future
A dreadful reality
So here you are
Six feet above me
Your white teeth shine
As you deposit
Your nobility

Oblivious you are
You abuse your literacy
You groan and tantrum
You people are the ones
Who undermine those like me
The merit to articulate
Our pain and agony

Yet give me not
Your sympathy
For this is not
The way 
It’ll always be

Much rather I would prefer
Your apathy
So give me that
Move on
Restore me some dignity