THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS SELECTED IN WINGWORD POETRY PRIZE 2023 LONGLIST.
You see us on the streets,
Running car-to- car, bare feet.
Blessing passengers, spinning tales,
Cleaning mirrors, earning kale.
But as the red turns to green,
It’s time to turn and flee the scene.
You scram away to your merry way,
As we fall behind every day.
The roads, our living.
The slums, our home.
No aid in sight,
We survive alone.
But once in a blue moon,
You have a special chore.
The city roisters in fireworks,
While you visit this hole.
You hand out money, clothes,
Things, our dreams are made of.
Is it for us, or your guilty soul?
We too, though, are someone’s dream
every once in a while,
we too are seen.
Solemnly vowed to be set free,
From the shackles of penury,
Where, silently we scream.
Yet, here we are,
While they continue to preen.
So, now? Now we make-do,
In this dear city,
While you drive past us,
Looking all pretty,
As our ugly homes, attires,
Bludgeon us, to feel so bitty.
Someday,
we’ll rise above pity.
We are the forbidden.
The forgotten.
Vagrants with nowhere to belong.
In an empire so grand,
We are an indigent little town.
In our own little fraternity,
We struggle and trounce.
But slowly and steadily,
We’ll make our presence count,
And someday, beside you, we won’t be
A homeless town.