"I am friends to a prostitute
Who for lack of patrons is catching up on her sleep
in the park
I have nothing to say to her, to console her
Except this overflowing sympathy, not in the least
mingled with contempt
I am a big brother to tiny little kids
Who have to pick pockets here and there to go on
living
Ending up as jail birds despite their young age
They can swear like ruffians but their mind is a pure
blank page
I am son to an embittered beggar
Homeless, handicapped, living hand to mouth
I invite him to a drinking bout
And he cries buckets over his long lost past
Me, in sum, I am a despondent heart
Always in communion with fates mired in mud
For I myself have on more than one occasion
Undergone hunger and imprisonment and humiliation."
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"Poor the unhappiness out / from your too bitter heart". (Wallace Stevens)