Its difficult to write
With paper and pad
Frozen fingers
In a blanket clad
In a shop doorway
Rain in your face
Cardboard protection
Dirty quilt laid.
A street corner poet
Devoid of a home
A voice of an angel
Words taking a stroll
Along lifes highway
Battered and worn
Mocked and cheered
By passersby call.
Deep in thought
In Winters chill
Paper falls to ground
Words to the wind
Two died that night
In the bitter cold
A street corner poet
Who will not grow old.