Bowery Mission

Living under the shelter of a storm,
Behold the life of a beggar born,
Trudging down road that a child once skipped,
Holding trousers up with string coarse and fabric ripped,
Cracked black finger tips dipped in pockets empty,
That carry stones instead of coins aplenty,
Nowhere to go yet everywhere to stay,
Another closed door to greet the day,

At night the floor comes hard on the shoulder pressing flat the soft skin,
The night offers little sanctuary for those who can’t make it in.

Mark M. Whelan