Thunderstruck

Never was a man so small, so broken
Gone, replaced, diseased, torn down, without hope.
Pants from a secondhand merchant, no coat,
Just one mangy measly sweater, colored
Gray. "Need help?" she said, the pretty woman,
Who was painted white and red and feminine.
"Yes," he replied, with fear, and spite, without
A thought of losing face, of losing what
Amounted to the dignity of men
Who straddle life with mismatched socks and slacks.
"A burger, ma'am, a buck, or two, no more--
A smart answer, a quick reply, "Sure thing".
Awkwardly his pale lips part, he lets a smile
Penetrate the barrier within that
Covers his white-knuckled hands, which clutch his last
Remaining thought - a book of dreams almost forgot --
A copy of Dickens, Copperfield, last page missing.