For A Stranger.

In the evening,
the old man begins his routine.

White hair, wrinkly and lean,

he holds an umbrella in his hand.

Ramages through the bin trying to withstand,

the smell, liquid and rubbish.

With only one goal to accomplish;

to find at least a can.

To think he's just an old man.

A son he says he has;

51 and broke till his ass.

Jobless and with a spouse,

he's unable to feed his house.

Refusing to be a burden,

this old man is one to be embolden.

Walks around kovan by faith,

this is just the same ol' phase.

Sitting on the bench comes a boy,

who had a ploy.

To give the old man a few more cans,

was the only thing in his plans.

Ran home with pespiration all over,

just to be the old man's sweet clover.

Cans in his hands he ran back,

to the place across Mac.

Passing over the cans to the old man,

that was so much better for him than the trash can.

Joy filled the man's eyes,

as darkness reigns across the skies.

Thanks was all he could offer to the kid,

and the kid wished for more than he did.

In the night,

the old man finishes his routine,

only seeing an angel in the form of a teen.

How much would you go to help a stranger?

This much?

or

This much?

Peace and love,

Lewis