As you see me sitting by the side of the road,
Daily do my clothes wither, my skin does erode.
You see my state and you think to give me relief,
A pound, some change – surely that will relieve my grief.
My poverty it seems is related to my stomach and to what I can eat,
Have you looked further and thought, could he desire more than an edible treat?
I suffer from a poverty not defined by my need to secure food,
A poverty that is linked to my well-being, related to my internal mood.
I have not a soul with which I can share,
A meal, some words, hold hands nor shower care.
There is no one in this land that I can call my own,
A stranger in my own city, living a life I bemoan.
My poverty is not that I cannot satiate my most basic of need,
It’s the social interaction, the conversation for which I plead.
For someone to stop, look me in the eye and say: "hey"
Ask me how I am, ask me what I plan to do today.
Introduce yourself, shake my hand and ask me about myself,
Nourishing my soul, these words are more valuable than wealth.
The next time you see me, and you think: ‘let me give him some change’,
Change your perspective and instead expand your range.
Enduring the isolation of my social poverty, I do exclaim,
Ask me for once: “my fellow man, what is your name?”