Sleeping Bag Poem by Matt Mooney

Sleeping Bag

A sleeping bag his home
thrown around him,
seated on a city bridge;
his only company there
footsteps of indifference
making him invisible,
chilling him as they pass
and the river down below
on its way to Dublin Bay;
used to staying silent,
catching now and then
snatches of what is said
in the evening rush,
left out of all that is,
despair gone to the bone;
no hope of good times,
his hand holding out
the hard to fill paper cup
and I drop in a coin
to hear the echo of it
sounding a happier note
in the hollow of his heart.