When Gods Come to Eat

I have been that man on the street,
with nothing to eat,
nothing but a six string,
and longing,
to warm his frozen feet.

I have been that girl, so far from home,
fresh bleeding wounds on her head,
contusions,
so alone.

I have been that baby running in the street,
running ignorantly toward a rushing mechanical stream.

I have been that man stumbling,
falling, but,
never not once,
dropping his drink.

I have been that trash can burning wildly,
fueled for disaster.

So when I see them on the street,
on the road,
nestled between resting streets,
I always try to leave them with more, than what I found them with,
and just a little less of the darkness.

Besides, who knows?
There are many tales,
that the weary traveler,
is but a mask
of a divine mind.