Simple
She forages freely,
no conscience at all;
pain stabs at her gut
like a knife keenly sharpened.
Picking through garbage cans,
fish-stix and foie-gras,
the deep pangs of hunger,
the depths of despair.
Alone in the city she's
wasted and care-worn,
someone should notice,
loose change would be nice.
Simple's her name,
and her disposition,
she's lost all her spirit
panhandling for handouts.
An urchin with no dreams
and people that don't care,
she's wretched and feeble,
just curl up and sleep now.
Garbagemen find her,
she's yielded to fate;
medics are summoned,
they're simply too late.
Copyright © Keith Bickerstaffe | Year Posted 2016
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