‘The Place’
At 5am.
Clock towers creak.
Homeless men peer torn heavily amidst.
Appears to be unstoppable.
This home-spurned thing.
‘Tis fierce cold over there.
Bitten-by-frost gloveens.
They left to feel frozen-boned by utter upside-down brilliance.
Where dead-end dreams go to breathe a little less behemoth.
Likely even.
He stares at untouched puddles carrying loneliness alone.
Worst kind – alone together.
His child/barely there – about to take this brand new atrocious news of theirs and to kneel dog-eared to death.
The weather got it. Every. Last. Bit.
Upon one-hundred-thousand homefront steps.
These readers are literary insane. Literally.
When one-whole-city-over newspaper publishes the corrupt state of a nation’s bottom-buck people.
And at their own turn a troublesome buck Will… They Won’t They Ever Help Our Way, Though?