A Chronicle of Homelessness

I know you can see them;

A silent orchestra

fragmented

along your streets,

But you don't notice

their ripped faces,

enclosed by paper shells.

You don't notice

the blood of their cries flowing from their open wounds

and disappearing through the cracked concrete

of benefits.

I know you can see her,

pink and yellow and blue,

begging at her mother through a filter of stability and strain and status

for the metallic tinkle of pitiful, pretty pennies.

I know you can see her

sharing a smile as she discovers a lost soul

for an instant,

without knowing that the aria of her laugh is more valuable

than every metallic symphony on the superficial surface

of this muted earth.