The View from my Perch

Abandoned

They sit on the platform discarded,

dejected, rejected like junk, 

by a society which couldn’t care less 

unwilling to sort out this mess. 

Refugees or street people, who knows,

no labels, no forwarding address

Lost or forsaken, mistaken for trash

carelessly pushed by a dirty broom

a clean sweep to make room - 

for what?

Bundles and bags are clutched to their side,

lifelines or anchors to lives they hardly recall,

and some  of them have no memory at all

of the families they lost or left behind 

in this perilous race for their life - 

degradation has hi-jacked their minds.

People pass by, noses in the air

discussing this blight on their nation,

loudly, as if no-one was there -

humanity cluttering up their station.

They point to a sign, piously proud:

don’t litter, don’t loiter, no waiting allowed.

They huff at society’s failings 

blindly railing against the laws

that allow this unwanted mob

to beg, with imploring eyes, for a job .

Ignoring these their brother and  sisters, 

who wait, worn out, weary, rejected and cold

huddled together the young and the old

clutching their rags to their chest, doing their best 

to survive, they wait in this nation’s station.

A train may rattle through one scheduled day 

crammed and full of fools who strut and preen,

ignorant - pretending they haven’t seen

the haunted and the hopeful waiting their turn,

eyes averted they want justice perverted

no room for those who don’t fit the bill.

Homeless or helpless, your plight is ignored

by the passengers who don’t give a jot.

It’s like waiting for Godot - a hopeless lot.

March 2nd 2019.

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