To A Streetchild

Scrubbing the dirt off of a muddy arm; The street lamps have died and the morning broken. Dawn arisen on a carton covered bed of rocks; Defiled pebbles growing cold in the descent of the night Just another day had passed, just another litter in the face of life. The shirt has always been the same Its only difference is it gets heavier each day, Weighty with the deposit of filth on the fibers of the skin and the eyelids thicker with dried down tears Eyelashes drooping down, crestfallen with black shadows of burden. Maybe a pale of water could wash off The hardships of the concluded day to a fresh start. Maybe it would clean away the tarnish of a broken dream And rinse off the unwanted memories of the biting night or drink away the forgotten hunger. Maybe it could take away the linings of earth In the palm of a soiled little hands and make it seem appealing For others to at least hand down a few cents and not to scare away the kindhearted ones willing to share the warmth that single centavo can provide to a desperate soul, enough to deliver hope To hold on to, perhaps until yet another day come to an end, Alone again in the hidden niche of the darkened street lamps.