Crossing streets 

Dust dancing in the corners

Soft purring of idling cars

Urine soaking into the cracks of the sidewalk

The sun feels hotter here

Reflected by the pavement that only goes one way

A woman sits with all of her belongings 

Tightly packed

Wearing layer after layer despite the heat

Whatever isn’t carried gets left behind 

There are no locks on doors

Eye contact is rare

Feels awkward when given

Since the giver is either disgusted, apathetic, or filled with too much pity

No room for that here

Not on the streets 

Paved with million dollar palm trees 

Hovering over make-shift tents

Being stabbed in the night isn’t as bad as being set on fire under a bridge

A code of conduct 

But just like “civilized” society 

There are still crimes

Because even in the most “civilized” society

A person on the street is not a person at all

Everyday asking for a buck

Every day bumming a smoke

She wasn’t born here

But here she lays her head that 

Is used to the damp, hard surface of an absent home


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