There but for the grace of God, I thought,

As he rose from his place on the pavement

And stumbled to the shelter for some soup.

Fifty, probably, but looked ten years more.

Unshaven, stinks, frankly, but still too proud

To ask for a bath. How did he get here?

Not long ago, he had a job, a spouse;

Then both disappeared and his home with them.

‘Bloody fool,’ he mumbled, ‘no dignity.’

His casual acceptance makes you shiver.

Last night, he was set about by some yobs,

For a laugh. ‘Just a scratch.’ Dunkirk spirit.

There but for…I know that he could be me,

Or you. If the wheel had turned, differently.