It's Called Rush Hour for a Reason

People come around the corner trying not
To notice the lump of living death
That's laying among the collected
And disregarded pieces of trash.

What's passed out and pale is easier
For all of us to ignore and try
To implore him through shaking
Our heads and muttering shame.

Then close all the doors to the bus
Or the Benz to travel outside
Of those comfortable lines, loosening
The grip inside pocket or purse.

A sheet metal house for the holy
Is filled to the brim with selective
Solicitors and particular pricks, numbing
Their senses by picking up sticks.

There's no liberation in balancing budgets
Or lowering rates when the bet was
Laid by the beggars and thieves who
Need nothing compared to those who escape.

Heaven's a junkie with both legs broken
And skin stretched tight over varicose veins.
It's the same as the black plastic bed
That you saw him enjoy.

We all admire what we think we despise
And run wild when faced with the truth
At our door. So next time he asks,
You tell him what for.