Seeking shelter under the moon,
(pale, grave, unjust)
It seems unfair that we
(the children)
Should suffer by the faults
(too many to mention)
Of those responsible men and women,
(elected or otherwise)
Quick to judge, lax in self-reflection,
(do they care?)
But, whatever the verdict be,
(pale, grave, unjust)
Here we are, alone, starving for remedy,
(sorry, no prescription coverage)
For solace to our weeping wounds.
(physical or otherwise)
Relief of the kindest human nature,
(a helping hand?)
We earnestly need and need and need…
(get a job, slacker!)
The voice of the Salvation Army speaker
(what’s the verdict today?)
Echoes the length of the shelter hall,
(a roof is a roof)
“No beds left, try again tomorrow,”
(bad luck or a curse?)
Over the clamor of hopeful guests,
(which was louder, his voice or the instant
shattering of my hard-pressed heart?)
And he turns, and he goes, and I am out
(the door)
Under the sheen of the moon, again.
(pale, grave, unjust)
One passer by gawks with a phony concern,
(should I ask with extended hand?)
But hastens his pace in planned evasion,
(why bother?)
As if I’m a disease.
(cough, cough…)
The moon looks down with a frown,
(yes, he too is sad)
At his pathetic subject, meager and small;
(where else to turn?)
He is the caretaker of us all, under his glow,
(pale, grave, unjust)
But, he too, will leave us at dawn.
(at the curb, at the end of the line)
