It could be worse

I'm reading one of Carver's short stories
about a couple who are forced to watch their kid
lying in a hospital bed, void of consciousness.

I leave the pub with a cigarette in my hand
and a swagger which will get me home.

'Excuse me mate.' I carry on, it could be anyone
'Excuse me mate.' I turn around.

He's dressed just like I expect him to be dressed.
He tells me how he lives in a hostel.
'Can you spare a cigarette?'
I think about it, no.
'Finish this one' I tell him
He asks me if I'm sure.
I tell him I am.

'I'm homeless' he says 'I'm just about to raid a bin'
I tell him not to worry about the cigarette...
I'll make another one when I need to.

He walks away and I wish I had said more to him.
He was polite, and admitted what he wanted.

He will raid that bin for something I can't understand,
but there is something that I do understand:
There is more life in that guy
than any other fucker I will pass
on the way home.