They blend in with the shadows
that appear throughout the day,
their gaze evades judgmental eyes
because it’s just their way;

they can’t help if they’re jaded
they have a “puny” lot in life,
fate’s hurled at them nothing but pain
and misery, and strife.

Dust is their companion
as they try and make ends meet,
stopping just to rest a bit
and ease the blisters on their feet.

They have an appreciation
for the simpler things around,
like shade in the desert sun
or a trinket that they’d found;

eating out of dumpsters
cast out from the human race,
and the angry pull of gravity
is etched upon each face.

Reverting to things, primal
under scrutiny and attack,
discouraged by the weather
and that no one’s got their back.

The lucky ones have shelter
or a place to sleep at night,
but most don’t even own a coat
and that doesn’t feel quite right.

They’re poorer than the ghetto
and even broker than the hood,
and even if they had a job
it wouldn’t do them any good.

Never knowing serendipity
because good fortune passes by,
the amount of pure disdain received
just makes me want to cry.

“They’re evil, and not normal.”,
“How can they live that way?”,
“They only want our spare change,
and I wish they’d go away!”

The other day, a broken man
with a defeated sort of stance,
was busy washing windshields
and was grateful for the chance;

just to prove that he is worthy
as a man, at the day’s end;
so that he could have enough to share
with another homeless friend.