new year, same story

His knees
press against the cold
cobblestones of carelessness as his eyes watch the shoes of passersby parade on
in a blind and straightforward manner.
A coin or two is all he asks silently,
a mute plea.  
But there are none to spare,
for all are destined for restaurices
and the bottom of countless empty litres of Pilsner.
The glutton must be sated,
for the Samaritan is asleep in his armchair, feet by the fire,  snoring on
in champagne infused ignorance.