To the Kind at Heart

He’s running on steamed day old coffee beans,

(have you ever seen such a wretched wreck?)

his eyes hang down in lumpiest bags seen

on man (life’s playing this kid with a stacked deck).

He’s fallen onto the floor just by

His classroom’s somewhat un-opened door. Blood

crawls in the veins his sleeping open eyes,

and he looks dead on the ground where he’d stood.

Then a stranger pulls him ‘n sets him on

a bench, letting him rest on a folded coat.

He sleeps now, breathing fine; he’ll wake at dawn

when the stranger’s gone, in memory remote.

         This sonnet’s brought to you by kindness prove
            and from the kind acts of readers like you.