47th and Madison

By D. R. DiFrancesco

Wind blows icy and sharp,

Sidewalks caked in gum and grime,

Could pass for Art Deco,

If not for their hearts of stone.

A biting chill rising,

Stinging the prone soul,

The corner she calls home,

Talking and motioning to her alter-ego.

Wrapped in a windbreaker of plastic,

Once for someones rubbish,

Black and torn,

This, her life fortune.

Passers-by avoid her gaze,

The unseen don’t exist in their convenient world ,

While scorn cast its ugly breath upon her,

Disguised as laughter and whispers.

She’s gone now,

Passed away, put away, moved on,

Her home, white washed and sterile,

Did you even know who she was, did she ever exist?

She could have been your mother,

Possibly a sister or a family friend,

Someone you could have loved,

She could have even been you.

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