The city numbs our sense of right and wrong.
Hurrying past, there is a temptation
To disregard his presence in our midst.
And, let’s face it, shocked at the exposure,
Most of us, averting eyes, do just that.
What would we see there, if we stopped to look
Beyond the torn sleeping bag, with a head
Propped up on folded rugs, squeezed yet still damp?
Would we see a life, a past, relations,
Ties which imperceptibly unravelled?
Would we see him then, dancing at the fair,
A younger man, cadging one extra sweet?
Or now, at cul-de-sac? His cry for help
Unheard in the noisy urban silence.