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sherry-asburyPoems
Pulling her cardboard with a filthy, ragged string... she searches. No corner is her own. There is nowhere she belongs. Sometimes the cardboard catches a breeze, sails up to smack her in the back of her legs. But life has smacked her so many times - she does not notice anymore. There is little hope for a clean place, but dry sure would be nice. Her bones sing in the night air, a chorus of hungry wolves. The cough in her chest is thick with illness; her feet are crippled stubs. She can not remember if she is very old, or young as a chick. She wanders - sure of this... she is cold and hungry and has no place to rest her head.
0
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
Homeless
Pulling her cardboard with a filthy, ragged string... she searches. No corner is her own. There is nowhere she belongs. Sometimes the cardboard catches a breeze, sails up to smack her in the back of her legs. But life has smacked her so many times - she does not notice anymore. There is little hope for a clean place, but dry sure would be nice. Her bones sing in the night air, a chorus of hungry wolves. The cough in her chest is thick with illness; her feet are crippled stubs. She can not remember if she is very old, or young as a chick. She wanders - sure of this... she is cold and hungry and has no place to rest her head.
#homeless
sherry-asbury
Written by
sherry-asbury
Jul 20, 2015
Jul 20, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
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