Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

I’ve noticed lately
that, after 15 years on the job,
I don’t look at the ground so much anymore.
You see, when you’re broke, you’re always looking at the ground.
This is not due to humility.
It’s because you’re always looking for things,
things that other people have dropped or thrown away--
money first, of course, but also cigarettes,
like a half-empty pack that someone has dropped or discarded
(in more desperate straits, a long butt),
refundable pop bottles, aluminium cans,
anything that shines or beckons to be used again.
Life is a perpetual treasure hunt when you’re broke.
Maybe, underneath it all, you’re really looking for redemption
but for the time being you’ll settle for
anything that’s spendable, edible or smokeable.
Once I found a billfold lying on the ground by a self-service
                                                                                Post Office.
Good citizen that I am, I carefully extracted the cash ($35)
and dropped the wallet in the mail slot.
It was like unemployment insurance.
I didn’t have to go to Manpower for three days.
My mother used to say, “The Lord takes care of fools and drunks.”
I don’t think he takes such good care of poor people.
They’re on their own.
Eyes on the ground, eternally searching for the next good thing,
that thing that will spell security for a minute or an hour,
a cup of coffee in a diner and, with luck, a cigarette to smoke
                                                                                 with it,
the warmth of a lighted room purchased at the price of your last
                                                                                               50c.
It’s the cold you fear - and those long empty spaces.
So you walk along looking at the ground, following an invisible
                                                                                            trail
down streets, up alleys, across parking lots and on,
moving with that patient, solemn shuffle
that’s the universal gait of the poor man--
eyes on the ground, that little piece of ground right in front of
                                                                                  his feet,
the only piece of earth in this whole world
he can call his own.