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Rushing feet pass by the stillness of others;
feet belonging to those of no hope.
Aromas of forbidden fruit waft endlessly,
torturously; they ache for just one chance.

Hissing sounds- wet tires on the street,
snake-like sounds, too close for comfort.
Such sounds remind those with no hope
of that forever harsh reality;
a reality of which they have no part.

They never will.

They're never asked.

Never thought of except with disdain
these people - they feel what others think.
The fortunate ones welcome the sights of
the voices, flurries of activity- the very realness of purpose-
their purpose, of which, to them, is right.

They'll never ask.

They never will.

Eyes open wide, a young child delights
in the small silver speck in the sky-
and another, small finger pointing all 'round.
Until his delight is disturbed by a stumble,
he feels his ma catch him, her look of disgust
not unnoticed and he wonders.

They sleep on a bench, on the street
and he is curious. He isn't alone,
not lonely as they, not alone in his thoughts.
Soon he forgets; they all do as they
retreat to their lives, don't look back
at those who do not contribute, the dregs, and the scum.

Better people make the noise, create the scents,
spend the money, chill on corners; they sit, not sleep
on the benches where those of less value rest their weary heads.

Life goes on, good or bad, won't stand still.

Life never asks and life never will.