Hungry, frightened,
Huddled behind a garbage can
In a darkened street of town.
Itching, shivering,
Tearful; sobbing; bawling, now, as
As night’s darker shades are pulled down.
And so he cries
As hunger bites, and sand-flies sting
His bare buttocks… And he bawls,
For no one seems
To pass his way to give some milk
Or piece of bread … Now he crawls
Around the can;
He cringes from approaching boots
Of big, strong men in fancy clothes.
They pass on by,
Not seeing his wee, wan black face
Or raw ‘cold’ from his black nose,
Which tastes quite good.
He suctions more – from nose to mouth …
No crying now! For his tongue
Labours to get
More ‘cold’ for his supper. His head
Jerks up … Is he hearing wrong?
Familiar sounds
Of shuffling feet … Excited talk …
A ‘bottle lamp’ lights up his face
As hearty yells
Unleash, and Ma sweeps him from his
Restaurant — his hiding place.
(To be continued…)
