BY
THOMAS G RICHARDSON
Through a hole in the door
Blows the winter wind
Cold fingers of air grasping you
Pulling and tugging
You shiver crouching in a corner
of a filthy room
Pulling an old discarded blanket
around you
Nothing keeps out the bitter cold
But better a squat than a cardboard
box
Darknesss falls and with it the temperature
Huddle ever closer to the ground
Seeking warmth but none can be found
Reach for the bottle get lost in its
depths
Cheap booze coursing down an
open throat
Brings neither warmth or hope
Just a numbness of the brain
To match that of the body
By morning a stiffening body lies
unmoving
A dirty old man scarcely human
One more statistic and no one cares
Someone's father, someone's son, or
Just another bum?