The Sandstone Doorway

I have a new home now
'neath this cold, frigid bridge.
It was built some 110 years ago.
Water drips endlessly upon my stale
skin, when it rains -
Chinese torture all the while.
And Oak floors still support
coal and timber trucks,
somehow - old blue iron rails
creak when the wind blows.
Huge sandstone boulders
with graffiti all over them
manages to bolster the span.
I came here in '03,
before a much better time
failed me, when the rent was paid -
when my blankets were warm -
when oatmeal was taken for granted,
a given each day.
I've got an old tin pan now
that's for my porridge -
sometimes I manage a little sugar.
Most times, I'm alone -
I do my 'fishin in peace.
After the leaves fall,
I'm all by myself,
and that's quite OK.
In summer, the drunkards
come around, look'n for
their booze, their women.
But that's been OK, too,
'cause they all know me now.
My old, stink'n clothes
don't bother them now,
and my rusty burn barrel
don't scare 'em at 'tall no more.
And when they see lights
flash'n after midnight,
they know it's just me,
'Ole Joe.
I used to be a lawyer man, don't ya know.