He lived a life

A harsh life

A tall black man, with wild, ebony locks

Whose trolly would squeak everytime he passed by my block

Who slept in the concrete jungle's malignant streets

Who collected cans to scrape a living

Sober he never was and repugnant he was perceived 

Among fields of weeds

And now that he's gone, I wish I could have talked to him

To ask him how he stumbled about

In this most unfortunate path

 Instead of simply saying good day

Today my father told me that he passed away

Dropped dead on the side of the road

Crashing down he went, like cheap boulders

Into the darkness of the abyss

In Death’s comforting embrace

No more drunken nights or wandering about

And those who despised him 

Simply walked the other way around

As if though avoiding

A dead, decaying hound

My father told me

"Yaddy, isn't it sad that he died, and no one will mourn for him, because noone really knew him? How terrible."

As he got out of the car, I stayed inside, watching the cars and people go by

A single tear trickled down from my eye