Somebody’s daughter
is standing on the corner,
covered, almost smothered
in several layers of
***** old winter clothing.

She has mastered the art
of begging with carboard pleas
for something, anything to eat,
while stranger’s have mastered
the art of never seeing her.

Further down the avenue
somebody’s son is sharing
the same sick despairing
hunger pains, and ragged wares.

****** features slightly uneven,
but no one is really looking.
No one ever truly sees him.
So, he scratches his brown beard
and plants his feet where
he thinks he might find
someone with a kind
and generous disposition.

Hundreds of cars roll by
in the day to night sky
with only handful
of hands out the window
to offer him
any compassion.