Homelessness is heartbreaking, and with all the stats and facts and stereotypes out there it’s easy to forget the real people behind the cardboard signs and sleeping bags.

I wrote this poem in my head while walking home on a Sunday morning; I didn’t want to forget him.

Street Dreams

He was sucking his thumb,
the man on the street,

curled up in the same way I do when I sleep

but with bricks as a pillow
and nothing to cover

and keep himself warm as he lies in the gutter

dreaming of something –
which is more than he owns:

just the thoughts in his head, and the skin on his bones.

READ MORE OF MY POETRY:

• Asylum in Print
• Equals
• Atlas
• Each Piece of Me
• The Potential
• Places I’ve Talked
• Daffodil