HOMELESS

The morning was steel blue cold,
still only a few hours old.
I looked down upon the city streeet,
thankful for the hotels abundant heat.

I saw her walking, unsteady, bent.
Soon she stopped, energy spent.
I studied her hair, tangled, gray
I wondered her destination on such a cold day

Pushing a cart full of trash, rags,
arms weighted with old shopping bags.
Suddenly, down she sat on the dirty walk,
stared blankly ahead, began to talk.

What is she saying, to whom does she speak?
This old woman, some sort of freak?
Not wanting to see I looked away,
down the street, towards the bay.

NO. I saw dozens more just like her.
Oh God, how could this occur?
In America, how could this group form?
She's not a freak, she is the norm.

                                                         Ruby Jean Sanders