Menu of the Mind

with barely a single thought

given to those standing

in the soup kitchen lines

day after day

year after year;

the only change

we perceive

are the growing numbers

and the pieces

of tattered clothing

that are keeping

the roughly sewn patches apart.

it's either the line

or a meal

cooked in a hubcap

under a bridge

not far

from a broken fridge

planned with a frugal resilience,

rat cunning

and meticulous planning

the heart of this meal

was not the pan

a passing thought

was not the plan

just keeping the walls

of the stomach apart.

Constantly surrounded

by the detritus

of throw away lives

always...someone else's

discarded mattresses

aged by neglect

and the street

a pile of wet newspapers

a gutted pram

half a teddy bear

with cigarette burns

for eyes