Mary, Sketched

She watches pigeons wobble, squabbling over
Fallen food. The places that are warm are
Closed. The sun's just up. It brings no heat.
She wheels a shopping cart, her home, down
Seventeenth. She'll go to see if someone at
The overpass has anything that she can eat,
And afterward? The stores will open. She'll
Find shelter from the wind, and maybe
Some softhearted tourist, having read her
Beat-up sign, will throw some coins into
Her can. How lovely that would be.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 30 times
Written on 2022-01-11 at 14:57

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carolo The PoetBay support member heart!
very sad indeed. Life isn't it