Homeless.
Wayne Duckworth
11

Wow. That’s a hard-hitting poem and the emptiness is tangible. I feel great sadness in this piece.

I saw the homeless man who we often saw on TW Common the other day. He was soaking wet, sitting in the library, sewing his ever present repeating tessellating black and orange patterns. I thought then about how he’d come to be in that situation, no home, little or no love, a face that is seen but unseen by our society and a future that I imagine is non-existent and the only good thing is that he is living moment by moment as I guess the future must hardly exist.

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