Bench Warmer

He's living in the park now;
keeps his clothes laid out
drying under the concrete pass
by the bridge over the creek.

No one asks for him,
hardly know he's there,
other than the constables
and the homeowner board.

We all know him well,
son of a resident,
thrown out by his mom cause
he became too much for her.

You might find his bag,
a beat-up overnighter,
we used to call it a hit-and-run bag,
now that sounds like a bad wish.

Clothes and shoes are in it
along with a can of Guinness Stout;
just leave it under the picnic bench
by the soccer fields, where it was.