Tag Archives: homeless

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.

The Forgotten Millions

By D. R. DiFrancesco

The sunken eyes of my child,

Daddy, I’m hungry,

A cry that stings my ears.

Oligarchs say, we will fix everything,

Really…how?

Didn’t you cause this in the first place,

Sending my labor to the third world.

Tell me what I’m to say to my little girl,

Daddy has to look for a job,

Food will have to wait.

No ones hiring,

I’m not high tech, I only know how to build things,

Since when is blue-collar a crime?

We call our old Fairmont wagon home,

B of A took our four walls,

Now where is my American dream?

They say we are the reason entitlements are broke,

They say I’m milking the system,

They don’t know, or even care who I am.

Another day on the hunt,

Another day knocking on doors,

Another day begging for work,

Another day at the food bank,

Another night in our car,

Another night of my child being hungry,

Another day of the oligarchs trying to say I’m worthless,

Tomorrow,

Another day of us fighting on!

Buddy Can You Spare A Dime

By D. R. DiFrancesco

The alarm rings,

Pastie mouthed, joints aching,

Swinging my legs off the bed,

Damn arthritis,

The cold is killing me.

I rub my eyes to wipe away the blur,

Standing in line to use the bathroom,

It wasn’t always this way.

Looking over my shoulder,

Bedroll, pair of pants and a shirt,

All I have left to my name,

Insignificant to most,

Something to fight for.

A hot meal,

Maybe the last for the day,

An assembly line of the wretched,

Like dogs fighting over scraps of meat,

Degrading and demoralizing.

Back to the street,

Bedroll under my arm,

Wearing everything I own.

More stares,

People pass by,

Eye contact would make me human,

I was an accountant for God’s sake,

I had a wife,

Left when times got tough,

I have kids,

They think Daddy’s gone away.

No surprise work is hard to come by,

One set of cloths,

Infrequent showers,

Unshaven,

Politicians want us to pull ourselves up by the bootstraps,

What bootstraps,

I wouldn’t hire me?

Panhandling,

For money, food, drink, and the occasional odd job,

Pennies, rocks, and insults are thrown my way,

I’m not a bum,

I’m you, one hospital bill away,

One hospital bill and you are me.

Maybe I’ll get a hot meal tonight,

Shelter,

A warm bed,

Maybe I won’t,

Look in the mirror,

Who do you see?

The Looking Glass

A window,

Like any other window,

Panes separate reality from fiction,

Anonymity, my closest friend.

 

The sidewalk,

Crowded with actors in this play,

Passers by looking up,

I’m part of the backdrop,

Important to the scenery,

Insignificant to the story,

But at least I’m still on stage.

 

I watch and listen,

Taking in the hustle and bustle outside,

So cliche’ yet so relevant,

The horns, the taxis,

Rushing to get to God knows where,

All to make another dollar.

 

People scramble,

Suits and ties, bohemians and homeless,

Sharing the same life on the streets,

Avoiding eye contact,

Avoiding making it personal

Too afraid of feeling empathy for those around them.

 

The children,

Double-dutch and hopscotch,

Brings back memories of simpler times,

Things weren’t so complicated back then,

Fire hydrants to beat the summer heat,

Careless and carefree were the names of the game.

 

My hands to glass,

Breath fogging my lens to the world,

Wishing I could be part of the show,

Instead of just a prop,

Destined to remain alone,

A fish in this fishbowl I call home.

 

A window,

Like any other window,

Panes separate reality from fiction,

Anonymity, my closest friend.

Plight of the Homeless

By D. R. DiFrancesco

Shadow people abound,

Faceless and nameless they inhabit our streets,

Forgotten amongst the urban sound,

Left to stifle in summer’s heat.

 

Shadow people trapped,

Passed by like trash littering the walkway,

Feeble hands outstretched for scraps,

Passersby strain to look away.

 

Shadow people lost,

Beaten down by an iron fist,

Society tries to subdue them at any cost,

Acting as though they don’t exist.

 

Shadow people remain,

Vagrants, homeless, bums, call them what you will,

Put a hand out to ease their strain,

Comfort and humanity and faith instill.

 

Shadow people no more,

Take them in, in body and soul,

End the battle of class; end the poverty of war,

Lift them up, our brothers and sisters, their urgency behold.