By Winry   

the problem isn't winter.
not the snow, nor the cold
never the Ice on my driveway
not one gust of wind
darting through every crack in this mind
The problem isn't that old homeless man
sitting outside this coffee shop
who the barista tells me to say away from
" he might touch you, or god knows what"
she barely whispers to me as I grab my coffee
the man who invites you to play a tambourine
while he sings his solemn soul out
I know he's just outside the door, waiting
to tell a ballad of the things he's seen
I watch as a young girl stops and stares
the mother scolds the girl but its to late
her hand is already reaching out
laden with what I can only suspect is her allowance
the man smiles then the mother jerks the girl away
a pile of trash on state street
forgotten as our humanity
we look at him, Shiver and think better hurry home
That's the problem

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