Just an Old Man
old bitter man
It was raining and cold and empty.
The time stretched to two am and a late night car drove down the street, disturbing the peace that had been settled there. A little farther down the street was the underneath of a train bridge, and under it sat a man. Maybe over fifty by looks, but he was just scrapping forty-three and was as bitter as an old man. All he had was a blanket draped over his knees and a woolly hat that his beady eyes look out from, watching out for any children that might roam the street.
The muttering was the same thing it had been two hours ago and it would be the same thing until dawn broke and he saw a child on the street. The muttering had him called crazy but it was that, as well as his appearance, which made people give him their change. A measly twenty pence was nothing, but they would give it to him and he would hoard it like it meant the world to him, growling and swearing if anyone came near to it.
By day he was a scrounging old man, begging for change or food or anything, and by night he was a cold, bitter old man who had seen better days. But for the last eleven years of his life, he had been a homeless man who the government didn't care about and a homeless man who hated the children who found it entertaining to steal what little he had just to watch him suffer.
All he had was his muttering, his hat and his suffering, but even then they still wanted to take that away from him. Like they had with everything else in his life.
The time stretched to two am and a late night car drove down the street, disturbing the peace that had been settled there. A little farther down the street was the underneath of a train bridge, and under it sat a man. Maybe over fifty by looks, but he was just scrapping forty-three and was as bitter as an old man. All he had was a blanket draped over his knees and a woolly hat that his beady eyes look out from, watching out for any children that might roam the street.
The muttering was the same thing it had been two hours ago and it would be the same thing until dawn broke and he saw a child on the street. The muttering had him called crazy but it was that, as well as his appearance, which made people give him their change. A measly twenty pence was nothing, but they would give it to him and he would hoard it like it meant the world to him, growling and swearing if anyone came near to it.
By day he was a scrounging old man, begging for change or food or anything, and by night he was a cold, bitter old man who had seen better days. But for the last eleven years of his life, he had been a homeless man who the government didn't care about and a homeless man who hated the children who found it entertaining to steal what little he had just to watch him suffer.
All he had was his muttering, his hat and his suffering, but even then they still wanted to take that away from him. Like they had with everything else in his life.