Thursday, April 16, 2015

In Resonse to Don't Ask Me

In Response to Don't ask me:

Breathing fog into icy air
Scurrying through the dark evening,
On their way to,
Theatres, Shows, an evening out with

furs, food kiosks,smell of chips/ burgers/onions...
there you are sat against the railings, on cardboard
how, how did you come to be there?
What is your story?

Day 17: 17th April,17th poem

Coming home from Canterbury last night I saw a young girl in a doorway. Her clothes worn, her hair disheveled she was smoking and had a small piece  of cloth beside her on which were a few coins. I wanted to crouch down beside her and talk to her but was afraid to. I thought I might take her to have a coffee and find out her story,but I walked on . However, I couldn't get her out of my mind. So this poem came in just a few minutes this morning:

Don't Ask Me

Don't ask me why I sit
In this doorway,
Cold from this floor
Seeping into young bones
Aged by misuse.
Looking, but not looking
At you,
Just catching your eye
 Long enough,
Hoping you'll throw a coin
Onto my need.
Don't ask me why I sit
But wanting only my stuff,
Dirty and ragged,
Don't judge me
Don't judge me.

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