Poetry
Related: About this forumNothing Comes
I dream I'm in a station
waiting for my ride
I imagine a fine train compartment
with a bed and leather seats
but it may be a bus
I'm not sure
Nothing comes
the sun light through the high station windows
casts shadow patterns on the tile floor
just like yesterday, and the day before
I wait
The curved oaken benches are my bed
I no longer worry about the madmen
that roam at night
The morning yawns, people stir
Nothing comes
42bambi
(1,753 posts)Karadeniz
(23,424 posts)panader0
(25,816 posts)waiting. A lazy tension.
Karadeniz
(23,424 posts)Think everyone. Some of us do eventually learn that a physical home is not as important as doing good wherever we are... and then we're no longer waiting for something outside ourselves.
Star-Thrower
(309 posts)with the extension of my snap benefits I have more than I can use. I go shopping and when I see folks huddling outside, clearly homeless and and seemingly in need of food I then decide to help. I go in get tins of those little sausages, or a sub sandwich, drinks like soda etc. Then exit and hand over the food to those folks. I walk away. I'm not looking for any accolades. It's the right thing to do. BTY I worked in a homeless shelter for about 6 years. Thank you pander0 for a moving poem.