Curled in corners,

like human litter,

they sleep concrete cold

dread-filled dreams,

pain-authors calling poetry

onto the streets,

writing themselves righteous,

cursing the guilt and pain.

Fault, whose fault is it?

Whose sin? Where to place the blame?

Punished for a no-crime?

They talk to themselves

rehearsing salvation,

waiting for redemption,

or just a warm bed,

or impartial wool blanket,

or an empty shopping cart

to load up with scraps of rubbish.

They cannot censor their souls.

Our cities rescue abandoned,

and abused animals.

Takes them off the street,

but leaves behind these women

with nowhere to go,

with nothing to do,

with no instinct for survival,

these sisters and mothers and lovers

who can no longer sustain themselves,

women, ladies of the streets,

the wounded nobody cares to heal.

​

Linda Singer

(c)2018