His can was filled with hope,
the kind he needed when he returned from the marines, when his mind felt stomped and lost, and the only word uttered was “CIVILIAN” , and his eyes replayed those moments on the wet, red field, pools of blood clouding his vision till the only thing he saw was death,

And this hope in his can
was the kind he didn’t have when he saw men on the corners of streets, holding up signs that read “The World Ends Today”, and knowing that the numbers 2012 did not hold meaning because the world had already ended when those lips opened and told him that she was dead;

His can needed the hope
when he had turned to his mother who didn’t care because she was inhaling demons that clutched to her lungs, turning them black with tar…she didn’t care, she didn’t care at all—nor did his father who came home with words as slurred as snow and his arms more violent than metal clubs,

And it was hope he didn’t have
when he knew he had to leave education in the trash and get a job in order to live, but unable to keep a job forever because without education, they didn’t want him, and he couldn’t earn the money he needed to get him into the college he wanted, the life he wanted, the dreams he wanted…

And only the can gave him hope
when cardboard became his bed, and trash his gourmet meal, and Michael Jackson’s voice his only companion, and the can his hope, his only hope, extending it out before him, but never letting go because it was the only thing that got him through the day, for without it his stomach would eat him alive—but nobody cares, everyone who passes by, and nobody cares, nobody cares—

It was sad to see his can of hope
spending most days empty, I approached him and he smiled so sweetly, “God Bless You”, and it was a small child I heard in his voice, and I longed to care for it and to feed it with hope—and so I gave him my dollar, and turned away with a smile of my own.