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The Final Beat
He sat in the street, reaching out for support.
He did not shout or sing or beg.
He looked and smiled and shivered,
shaking in his cardboard bed.
The snow came down, December time,
cascading softly through the air.
But winter’s chill brings ringing bells—
no space for him, no mercy there.
No warmth tonight, no place to go,
the shutters down, the bitter bite.
He pulled his coat, so thin and worn,
and yearned for times before the scorn.
On Christmas Day, he sat stock still,
as voices bustled down the street.
A world alive with cheer and song,
but none could hear his slowing beat.
And when they came to wish him well,
to toss a coin, to share some cheer,
he sat stock still—his breath was gone.
His final beat.
His final beat.
His final beat.
Copyright ©
Richard Dougan
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