She's never young and always looks as if she has no home. I don't know if there is a God, but I pray she gets warm; has a soft towel to dry her troubles away. It's on those cold and wet days I think of her most. I know I should ask her name. I know I should offer her something:
money to fill her hands
a cup of coffee to bring life to her eyes
a street corner away from the cold, cold rain
But I don't.
See, her anonymity is her life.
And what is this to me? A blogger's post.
Poetry Pantry #412
17 hours ago