The blue, vacant stare,
That kills the life alive,
Inside, like gentle suffocation,
Searches the faces of passers-by.
Darkened by hood, by dirt,
The hidden face, expressionless:
A mirror to their stony indifference,
Is unable to find solace or mercy.
The reflection in shop windows,
Of cardboard beds, alfresco;
Of pennies in a ‘styrene cup,
Tell nothing of the tale.
With central heating available,
In brown paper bags, with added extra:
The cold comfort of chinking glass,
Still; delivered by reluctant hands.
That hope can still reside,
Not to beg for change,
To happen. One wish:
A place to be at home.