The Bum (a story, also a re-post)

He glared with disdain at the old tin can

held up with hope by a dirty old man

whose eyes were too shiny, his nose was too red,

telling a tale with words unsaid,

and the young man turned with a disgusted frown

staring the old man up and down,

Then he said, “I have better things to do

than to hand out my money to a bum like you.

There’s work out there, why don’t you get some

instead of sitting here like a dirty old bum?

I’ve worked hard for the money I have

and I’ve earned my right to the way I live

so I’m not about to throw my money away

to a guy who sits on the street all day.

You’ve made your choices, I’ve made mine

and I’m not gonna pay for your whiskey or wine.”

He spun on his heel, about to leave.

No drunk was going to ruin his Christmas Eve.

His sweetheart was waiting and man, was she sweet!

So why was he talking to this bum on the street?

In another few hours he’d be whisked away

‘neath a blanket of stars, by a horse and sleigh,

snuggled beneath shawls, a hot drink in hand

with sleigh-bells a-jingling. Oh, isn’t love grand?

He turned and began to walk away

but paused as he heard the old man say,

“I was a young pup once like you

and I guess I know why you feel like you do

but until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes

I beg to differ about ‘your right to choose’.

Sometimes you gotta take what you rather would not,

and you’d do anything to trade the hand ya’ got”

The old man’s voice grew a little hoarse

as he ran his fingers through hair long and coarse.

“Yes, I remember it all real well

I had dreams, held the world by the tail.

I loved a sweet lady and she loved me

an’ we were as happy as anyone could be.

Oh, the happiest day of my entire life

was the day that sweet lady became my wife,

and the second best days I ever had

were the three great times I became a dad.

With each new little baby’s birth

we added a corner to our ‘heaven on earth’.

Our days were numbered, but we didn’t know.

We were as happy as anyone here below

until one day an old drunk ended my life

when he killed my three babies and my wife.

So, before you talk choices like winnin’ and losin’,

That we become what we are by our own choosin’,

I’d like to ask you, have you lived alone

after your ‘heaven on earth’ was gone?

Have you sat in the darkness, your 'now ever-after'

listening to the silence echo your baby’s laughter,

and still hear the voices of your precious darlings

or close your eyes to still see them smiling?

Have you heard your wife’s voice calling you

to waken alone and cry all night through?

Then, in a desperate effort to make your thoughts end

have wine or whiskey become your best friend?

Have you gone to work where they locked the door

saying, ‘you don’t work here any more’?

You may call me a bum but before you do

would you like to walk a mile in my shoes?”

The young man was speechless, what more could he say

to this man who suffered more loss in one day

than most people suffer their whole life through?

Words seemed empty from this point of view.

This was no bum, but a lonely old soul

Who, under life’s sorrow simply lost control.

His teardrops fell as he stared at his feet

then he sat down beside the old man on the street.

“Forgive me” he wept to the dirty old man,

“Oh, please forgive me if you can.

For I am the bum, the most ignorant of fools.

What do I know about any of life’s rules?

I’d fill up your can twenty times if I could

but I really don’t think it would do any good.

Far better than money, for you I believe

would be somewhere to come home to this Christmas Eve”

So, there in the cold ‘neath the streetlamps glow

sat the young man with the old in the falling snow,

as the angels looked down from heaven above

Smiling at the pair in tender love

-a young man who would never, ever choose

To walk a mile in the old man’s shoes

Slowly they both arose to their feet

and arm in arm, they walked up the street

(last verse optional)

So before we call anyone a drunk or a bum,

Perhaps we should ask them from where they have come

instead of judging, lend them an ear

and we might be appalled at the stories we hear.

God, give mercy to the poor on the street.

Their stories are the tears that the angels weep.

Shine your love on them and show them the reason

we all may have hope this Christmas Season.

All Rights Reserved

Janet Martin

This poem was inspired by a tragic story on the news...
and spawned the poem below.

I've often wondered what became of that man, a jeweler whose wife and kids were killed by a drunk driver.