A Homelessness Race

A Homelessness Race

A withered old woman got caught in my eye.
Someone time left standing a passer-by.
Studying this figure only a reckoning will free.
How is it that no one notices the woman I see?
Shoulders both slumped as she leans into her gait.
Tiring of her journey, yet marching on as if late.
Speculating the condition, of a box she calls home;
While envisioning filthy blankets atop layers of foam.

In this place survival feeds on the last of her will.
She rests those shoulders of hers lying perfectly still.
Barely catching what breath remains from her day.
Guilty, taking for granted 'good night, sleep tight' we say.
Having only her mind to entertain her thought;
How she amuses herself while she's thinking or not?
Walks without matching socks or shoes on her feet;
Who people look for in her as she walks down the street?

Whose mother is this? Who could she possibly be?
A mother who sacrificed a child like me;
So others might give her child all she would have given,
If she could have chosen for them a good life to be living.
So little time imbibed what humility was saying;
Begging God for mercy down on my knees praying,
'For a withered old woman to be covered in grace;
Would that others might notice a homelessness race.'


All rights reserved, c Robin Thomas