I am sat on a path with a comb in my hand,
Made myself nice I teased every strand.
I buttoned the bag that serves as my coat,
Tied a cloth neat at my throat.
I sit very still to not cause alarm
Smiling, for I wish you no harm.
This is my home the space by a door,
It’s where I live because I am poor.
I won’t force your gaze upon my face
as you pass me by with heads low in case.
I sit on the path with my comb in my hand
I am Wishing you didn’t
have your head in the sand.
This photograph was found on ‘pixaby ‘homeless’
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