By OldPoet   


Pulling her cardboard
with a filthy, ragged string...
she searches.
No corner is her own.
There is nowhere
she belongs.

Sometimes the cardboard
catches a breeze, sails up
to smack her in the back of her legs.

But life has smacked her
so many times - she does not
notice anymore.

There is little hope for a clean place,
but dry sure would be nice.
Her bones sing in the night air,
a chorus of hungry wolves.

The cough in her chest
is thick with illness;
her feet are crippled stubs.

She can not remember if she is very old,
or young as a chick.

She wanders - sure of this...
she is cold and hungry and has
no place to rest her head.

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This Poems Story

I was homeless for a brief period due to DV,,,and was NO candidate for living thus... this is combined with other stories of such women