No Friend Of Mine
And I see them sometimes, my hands outstreched,
They look away, they talk, laugh, eyes lowered,
And I retreat, give up.
But sometimes, only sometimes mind you, I get a coin or two,
Bread, milk, a pie, food fit for a king!
A conscience cleared, a stomach filled.
Till tomorrow that is.
Yes the evenings are cold, the ice, the snow, the rain,
Newspapers, blankets, but still no warmth.
Soup, tea, bread even if I’m lucky.
A room with a view! Concrete and pools of murky water,
That glisten as the street lights cast their rays on them,
And fade as morning awakes.
And on Sunday the bells wake us up! Oh this joyous Godly day.
’Tis the Sabbath, the day of rest,
But there’s no rest here where the hand of God has yet to touch,
And I see them sometimes as they step from their cars into the cool austerity
of the church,
Smile at the vicar, joke with a friend,
Watching through the window as they eat the bread and drink the wine.
I imagine it burning my throat and quenching my thirst and how I long for just
a little,
But their God is no friend of mine.
He laughs while I cry,
He doesn’t fill my stomach,
And when I turn to him he runs away.
Where is he when I’m cold, hungry, lonely or afraid?
Where is he when the nights are long and the days spent holding out my hand to
strangers?
Where is he when we are told to move away from there,
Away from the respectable people who don’t like to be reminded that we exist,
But their church,
And their cross,
And their God,
Just ain’t no friend of mine.