Nobody cares about the little things.

Nobody cares about the little things.

Not unless they make money,

Or become the latest human interest.

A story on the breakfast show.

At least it seems that way

To Jimmy.

When he can’t find a place to sleep

Without worrying about his safety.

God knows he has nothing to steal

But sometimes there can be perverts

Looking to cop a feel,

Or young drunks wanting to end

Their night, with a selfy

And a fight,

Share it on Utube, facebook,

Give the world a good look.

As they call him a chicken,

And give him

A finger-licking kicking.

An old man now,

Lived on the streets longer

Than most.

Tells stories about

Fishing boats

And wishing wells.

Amazing journeys

To far off lands.

He keeps the young kids rapt.

As they warm there hands

On tin cups

Filled with thick soup.

Ladled out by the Sister’s,

From the back

Of a battered truck,

Parked beneath the bridge,

Alongside the river.

You can see Big Ben

As you drink.

It makes you think

How close it all is

And yet so far.

He could walk it on foot.

Never sat in a car,

Not since he was released.

They called it ‘being in care’

It felt more like prison.

Probably safer in there.

He reckoned,

In truth,

They only cared

About the hurt they caused.

Never even paused

To consider their position.

Of trust,

Thought what they did was right

And just.

Nothing will change.

This crap will remain,

Until the Grandees

Are caught,

With hands where

They shouldn’t,

And then maybe

There will be

A very royal carry on.

But it will not help him.

Too late now

To turn this tide.

The gap between his life

And yours, a mile wide.

Better to walk away,

Leave the street behind,

Hail a cab,

Take a ride,

Think of Jimmy as an irritant scab,

If you think of him at all.

A stubborn stain,

That refuses to go away.

Perhaps, if you help him,

He will,

One day.