Thanksgiving Joe

I woke up again with roof over head

He sleeps on a bench, newspapers for bed.

I dress in my best, ironed, polished and clean

His rags are so tattered just standard issue greens

Only once have I seen him, his name I don’t know

For the sake of this story we’ll just call him Joe

Thanksgiving’s now calling as it sits in the fridge

Traditions kept sacred because he fought on a ridge

So I’ll dine with my loved ones as he’ll stand in a line

I’ll cherish each moment, but Joe’s just biding time

I’ll pray to my father to spread blessing and cheer

He’ll pray for just one night without hunger or fear

I think of him often and what’s become of him now

And how could this man make a difference somehow

Maybe a meal to a shelter or some change when I can

For that guy on the corner, cardboard sign in his hand

Maybe clothes for their back or shoes for their feet

Or to simply not look off when by chance our eyes meet

Could I have changed his Thanksgiving? I may never know

But it’s never too late to help the others like Joe

Greg Bauer

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