Life Beneath the 49th St. Bridge

You wake up to the sound of distant bells.
The morning sun climbs high above the ridge.
The air is full of sick, infected smells.
It’s life beneath the 49th Street Bridge.

You stumble from the dark into the light.
The litter crunches underneath your feet.
You need to soothe your monstrous appetite.
You scale the hill and now you’re on the street.

The people on the sidewalk look ahead.
Most act like they don’t even know you’re there.
To them you’re like a ghost who’s long been dead.
But still a few find time to stop and stare.

The Sunday church bells call them all to God.
But you are very prone to sacrilege.
The preacher is the biggest kind of fraud.
No God exists there underneath the bridge.

Of course you have no money to buy food,
but you were always one resourceful man.
About this situation you conclude:
you’ll find yourself a well-stocked garbage can.

You find a treasure-trove of rotting scraps.
You think that maybe it’s your lucky day.
Enough to last a couple days, perhaps.
But still one obstacle stands in your way.

You’ve seen the woman on the street before,
and now she’s hogging your potential meal.
Her situation’s similar to yours.
But still it doesn’t change the way you feel.

She hears you and she starts to turn around.
Now’s your chance; there’s no need to explain.
With all your force you knock her to the ground.
She hits it hard and screeches out in pain.

You fill your tattered bag now to the top.
Who knows when you will eat this well again?
Now hurry on your way, here comes a cop-
the biggest enemy of homeless men.

You’re back at "home", and night is at your feet.
It’s winter and you’re frozen to the bone.
The sky is open; now it starts to sleet.
In misery, all you can do is moan.

You gaze out at the wasteland all around.
It's barren and the trash there reigns supreme.
Broken bottles and used condoms line the ground.
You close your eyes and welcome any dream.

Tomorrow plays exactly like today.
The night is bitter, painful to the end.
You wish that it would all just go away.
It’s pretty sad when you’re your only friend.

How did you get here, where did you go wrong?
It doesn’t matter; this is all that’s left.
You listen and you hear a lovely song.
The golden-throated singer’s name is Death.

You’re not the first, you’re not the last to live this life.
You’re not the only one who ever felt the pain.
You’re not the only one to ever take a knife
and then to dig the metal deep into a vein.

And when you die another takes your place.
The sun sinks slowly down below the ridge.
Another bum, another nameless face.
That’s life beneath the 49th Street Bridge.