Inside the heads of the homeless.

 

Painting by T. C. Chiu

It’s a prayer that comes

As I pass the homes

Of the homeless on the street.

With their tents and wraps

And their sorry happs

We have chilly times to meet.

They are disinclined

Thinking I don’t mind

That their lives are short on Hope.

But I do you know

And it shakes me so

As they shiver and they grope.

Grope for food and heat

And some dryer feet

And some self-respect perchance.

Pushing carts of stuff

Surely not enough

For a life that might advance.

Do they think I gloat

In my newest coat

And my car that passes by?

I might listen now

With my wallet vow.

To support right paths they try.