South Kensington

I walk, surrounded

by the sounds

of buskers,

the sight of husks

of people

sleeping bags cocooning bodies.

Sights, sounds, and feelings

send me reeling

with awe,

the shock of a flaw

in such a magical city

overflows my mind.

Voices pull me back, flush

with the rush

of normal people bustling,

by, accustomed to hustling

by and ignoring

“Homeless and Hungry — Please can you help?”

Imagine living

a life dependent on the giving

of strangers

facing the dangers

of heat, cold, and sickness

with only a blanket and cardboard sign.

Playing a flute

in a putrid

underground tunnel

people funneling

by with glassy, uncaring eyes

thinking ‘maybe if I had smaller change’.

I pause before art,

tiny wooden statues laid

art on dusty blankets,

and should I buy

a polished lion or butterfly

just to feel better?

I don’t meet his eyes.

And we walk

surrounded by din,

unease winding serpentine within

our minds,

I can’t seem to shake

this white noise as I take

step after step, wondering why

but never stopping to

wonder why.