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.
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.