Mr. Pockets

He sat on the curb.
Raggedy and worn.
A rugged man's face,
ruddy,
unshorn.

Smoking a stub he found on the street
with barely whats left of shoes on his feet.
He grinned me a grin, a rotted grin
with smilin' eyes, yellowed now by gin.

He said, "Got a minute?
Got a moment to share?
I'm not askin' for nothin'
just want you to see me
and not treat me like air."

He reached in his pockets;
pulled 'em inside out.
"Empty pockets ain't nothin'," he said,
"to brag much about,
but I got a story, a story to tell
'bout a life lived up and shot all to hell."

"That's not how it started,
I'm not at all what I seem.
I just had lots of bad luck,
finally ran out of steam."

"I once had it all, looked a lot like you,
lost my last job of twenty
then my wife said we're through.
So I picked up a bottle
to drown all my pain
stopped caring about anyone
so it's all down the drain."

"How 'bout you,
you rich lookin dude,
what you got to show
for your life lived true?
Nice house and cars
and money in the bank?
While you still have it all
don't forget who to thank."

I said, "Well, thank you, Mr. Pockets
for reminding me of you.
I once was right where you are
not knowing what to do.
But I remembered life was ticking
like a time-bomb in arrears.
And I chose to make a difference
with with all my days and years."

"So I found a man with hammer
and I said I'd be his nail
and he took me up the mountain
and he took me out to sail
he said if you'll just work for me
I may start you with a pail,
but I'll let you grow with honor
and I'll let you pick your trail."

"So are you going to sit and pull
empty pockets out to show
or are you going to come with me
and watch those pockets grow?
More and more you'll have each day,
more than enough to share,
for that's the way that I was told
to find my way back there."

(dedicated to the jobless workers who really just want to work)
By Randy Hurst