His body is intense with accusation;
He's shivering, despite the evening heat.
You have a sense of human devastation,
A person rendered somehow incomplete
By drugs, maybe, or just accumulation
Of all the callous business of the street.
You feel an urgent need to know what lies
Behind the anger of those pain-shot eyes.
He says, "Don't think I've anything to say."
You stare at him. You almost know that face.
He says, "Not that you'd listen, anyway."
His voice is hard. It lacks all subtle grace,
And yet tonight reminds you of a day
Far happier, which you can not quite place...
He jabs a hypodermic at your neck,
And down you topple, an unconscious wreck.