People living in cardboard boxes ...
What are they doing there,
Are they there out of choice,
Or there in despair?

Are they there through their own fault,
Or is the blame society's at large,
Should you give them some free assistance,
Or have police put them on a charge?

Unlike the good samaritan,
You choose to walk on the other side,
Quite happy to debate lofty moral issues,
Until you meet reality, stumble and collide.

Cardboard City's inhabitants,
Are surely past redemption,
Would you really make that statement,
If in there, lived your son?

Shouldn't they help themselves more?
Perhaps they've already been trying,
All I know is they are fellow human beings,
And in the winter ... they are dying.

do you see them there?
heads bowed
heavy with a past
they cannot stomach
do you seem them there?
an aura of gray seems to follow them,
and people step away when they pass
frightened perhaps,
that the misfortune of the less fortunate
will cling to their
expensive coats
and warm mittens
do you see them there?
they do not sing the anthem
or pledge their allegiance
they have no love
for a country that does not love them
they will not lose what is left of their dignity
attempting to run after
a world that has left them in the dust
they are the essence of dust
unclean specks
unimportant to the
                                     big
the
                                     loud
the ones who run the show
they are far from running the show
do you see them there?
breaths catching in the cold air
an unadulterated bitter anger
at those above them
for placing themselves above them
do you see them there?
because sometimes they get
     l
         o
              s
                   t

Going to war
was a piece of cake
compared to coming back

In war I always knew
at least a few things
would always happen.

It became my home
because my family lived there
my comrades became
the stability to continuing on.

Each indifferent day
was a lasting piece of our humility to living
and our bond-ship to pride.  

I slept in trenches,
in the open air,
under the protection of some thin vail
that'd we all make it back together.

Here in the common wealth
I sleep in alleyways
and under bridges
with the aspirations
that someone will spare some change.

Today I went to London Town
A city famed for its wealth and crown
But the reality will make you frown

There are no paths of gold here to be found
But a sea of homelessness to drown
Occasionally a passer-by bends down
Chucking a coin in to a hat or cup
As though they’d pick something dodgy up

If they placed it in their hand
But most walk by in a dreamland
Pretending they don’t even exist
Crossing the street on a pivotal twist
A quick pirouette, ensures an inconvenient truth is missed

Today I went to a matinee
A luxury, a theatre play
I traveled the train without a worry to pay
Simply swiped my card the contactless way

Indulged in a big meal out
For fifty quid it was a reasonable shout
While across the road is this girl hanging about
And her dogs called Buster, I found out

I gave her some change and the time of day
Asked if I could stroke her dog, she said I may
On the girls lap Buster lay
Eyes wide, grateful for love I sent his way

She needed twenty two pounds
For a full week stay at the shelters grounds
But the funds she said she never found

“When I come back I’ll bring you a drink”
She asked for hot chocolate
I gladly agreed
I called the Salvation Army where she said she’d be received
Providing she had the money to leave

My call was in a queue but nobody picked up
I wanted to pay so she and Buster could snuggle up
Somewhere warm, even for just a week
So her ankle could heel and they’d get some sleep

I walked to the corner where I promised that hot drink
I looked around, took a double blink
Buster and his owner where gone, before I had time to think

Now I’m home in bed, heating on
Hoping they are somewhere warm
Praying that they gained some profit
I never delivered the promised hot chocolate

Despite all we've been through
You still believe the lies
The figmented truth they sell us
In neatly folded towels
Ironed sheets and fresh linen
Tempting us with home
A seemingly harmless word
Dragging us under
Sinking us deep
Those words held memories
Drilled into our bones
Buried in the recesses of hearts
While we wander the streets
Clutching to our rags
Nursing broken dreams
Scampering like mice in the night
Tugging at loose ends
On the pieces of frayed cloth
For the unspoken promises
The light at the end of the tunnel
The reward from the journey
You didn't believe me
When I said survival is for the fittest
But you have seen for yourself
There are no such things as miracles

Is a place for the homeless
Is a place you can hide when the rain is after you
Is a special place for the aimless
Is capable of turning good to bad
And vice versa

Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man.
“I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says.
The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says
“There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.”
The sorrow is genuine.
He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed,
wafting an odor of smoke and earth.
A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket,
has a dark stain. His silver beard
is neatly trimmed.

On one wall above the safe is a giant
mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach.
The man says, “There might be—”
“No. It’s always the same.”
For a moment he closes his eyes,
a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass.
Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich
over the countertop through the teller window.
“Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod,  
and he walks away with a limp.

I cash my check, a big one
from three days of messy labor
for a matron of the horsey set.
“He lives by the creek,” the teller says
without my asking. “Under a bridge.”
Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars,
I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard.
I might offer the man something.
He might refuse to take it.
Anyway, no matter:
he has disappeared like the last stagecoach.
Only the blessing remains.