There’s frequent conjecture
On the urban spectre
Of the city’s rough sleepers,
Ever-present Loose-Change Reapers,
Sitting on pavements passing the time
While the rest of the populous goes rushing by
Getting themselves into quite a palaver,
With sooo much shopping always to gather.
It’s Christmas, soon, let’s not forget(!),
Seasoned consumers starting to fret,
Ploughing the streets with crazy fervour
Getting themselves in a seasonal lather,
Not looking past the end of their nose:
Soooo much to do-
Money, the imperative mark of relations,
Although right now doing little for patience…
Tempers fraying as crowds agglomerate,
No indication that these will abate
As members of the public arm themselves
With carrier-bags full of stuff grabbed from the shelves…
Rushing headlong down the crowded streets,
Absolutely NOT admitting defeat
With eyes fixed firmly on next destinations,
Oblivious of vagrant poor relations.
We, the socially mobile army
Overlooking these folk as though they’re barmy,
Oblivious to the reasons behind
Each one’s decision to sit, so inclined.
Rarely a hint of the motivation
Behind such an asocial situation,
Just the subtle marks of human endurance:
A pot for the coppers and avoidance of glance.
Judgement comes easy to humankind.
Perhaps ‘tis the season for an open mind?
and many more…