Homeless by Miki Byrne

I am not a silent poet

In a cardboard city,

where streets are paved

with polystyrene and chip papers.

Leavings of others gain value:

Nub-ends split and re-rolled

eke out a few drags.

Bins at the back of supermarkets

make good hunting.

The soup truck  is serendipity

on a cold night.

Now and then, a clean bed.

Subject to someone else’s

charity, warmth,

sense of good citizenship.

Mostly, we stand invisible.

To turned heads, walls of indifference.

Some drift in their own world.

Some fly on Thunderbird.

Dream of a safe home.

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