The Portrait Of a Ragman

I am the unseen onlooker,

Looked down upon mostly

Or not looked at, at all;

Lost in the multitude

As inconspicuous as

The black diamond in diabolic dust.

I pass by the lanes and streets;

I trod the untrodden path

Strewn with shards of glass.

I touch the untouchable,

Rummaging through the refuse

Going down the drain.

Only flesh and bones

Unequipped with

Sometimes a stick, sometimes a sack

To clear the clog made by the modern man.

Who am I?

Just a rag and bone man

Living in shanties along railway tracks.

The lines on my face tell the tale

 of treachery,

Of drudgery,

That I have suffered silently

So far;

But who hasn’t?

Everyone goes through the same rut

Day in and day out.

I am no different;

I don’t have much at stake

In the common order of things.

A prince has always more to lose

Than a pauper, hasn’t he?

However, if I don’t do my chore

Your smug mansions would get choked

With stinking spaces and futile feces,

With heart-wrenching howls

Ever defiant dreams and never wanting wishes.

Then you too would have to

Dine grime and drink slime

Just like I do every day.