Bag Man

Slumped against the unobtrusive black street lamp, he begs.
No words escape parched lips, but his eyes,
haunted by what the world has done to him,
need no explanation.
They are hollow
pools of gray abyss.
His hopelessness screams behind them,
long since barred from escaping.
His brain won't let these thoughts, this despair
escape from any orifice.
He knows there is no point.
Any wasted breath costs him life.
His hat, wordlessly extended, resting
on his mangled trousers, contains no money.
Soulless, prada-clad men and women
do not stop to notice the bag man. 
The do not seek to pacify any guilt
they may have felt had they altered
their pattern, and looked.
No person spares a first glance, 
let alone a second,
for this wretched epitome of despair.
But he glances.
As pointed tail sweeps too close
to the streetlamp where he leans, 
unconscious of the outstretched limbs, he draws up his legs. 
A guardian angel, to prevent the heartless droids from
tumbling over them.
He is protecting the people who did this to him.
Why?
Why are demons sitting in mahogany corner offices,
while their guardian angels rot and fester
against every black
streetlamp.