The homeless men, one in a wheelchair
Holding court with a pipe, one rolling
His rucksack of possessions over and over
Along the concrete, one simply rocking
On the bench, all of them talking
Gibberish as if they're understood
Or like it doesn't matter if they're heard
And we feel as ashamed as the upright folk
Upon encountering the town drunk —
Our words are unconditional
But they must be heard
To be real.
