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The Homeless

Who will know their name?

Grapefruit shipped from Florida
lay gutted in some trash –
summer heat – cockroaches
lay eggs – on top of tender white
juice. . .

The name of the dead found
yesterday – no one really

Army greens thrown inside a
bin discarded for the homeless,
a pair of rosary beads dangle
from the metal flap – near
a parking lot, on Congress Street
where someone died last night.

Lunch was tossed into a can
In front of D’Antonio’s
Pizza joint – dinner – half eaten
Falls as I pass, onto hot pavement
Those without names wait for
Daylight to end, for empty trash.

When daylight shines between
Cement – those without a name
Are curled into a fetal position, on
Mud or grass, on glass –

The dead – last night – found
Near a trash can where Borders
once stood – no one knows – who.

Patrons of a boutique walk quickly
Past the yellow tape on Congress
Eyes focus on a crack in cement
Never seeking information, or nodding
A simple good morning – holding

A Starbuck coffee, a morning paper
Walking by today’s headlines as if it
Was a conflict concealed to their world

Never seeing dirty skin, filthy
Clothes – or a broken bottle of
Whiskey – Gin – those in tiny empty
Bottles near the trash

The name of the dead – will not
Be found in the morning paper
When no one knows their name –
In the morning – no one cares.

A young girl in pink tights
Knees apart, reads a book
A book resting on her knees
Above her – graffiti – faces

Painted on a brick wall of
Madonna – four times – she relates.
Questions – cryptic – as a girl
Folds her book – barely
Lifts her head, or wonders why
Uniformed men are standing there –
She probably never reads –
Shakes her head as if to say
She does not understand

Another piece of granite without a
Name – a stranger laid to rest –
Perhaps another Jane Doe –
Baptised by the press.

No one knew them, or never
gave a damn.

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