Boston lay beneath our pity
There is no one left on the bench
I'm writing just before bathing
Hope you love me that bad
Take away the city's light
We have come out into the streets
Sing Mother's lullaby to Mother
And ask for nothing door to door
He's coming back to the city
Ask for the colored hippie
A little time to be so happy
Try not to act like something you're not
Boston is not really a cruel city
I let the children out early
Teach him to write for money
And ask to see the preacher
War is not everything
Life in the city goes on
When we got lost on the streets
I knew we could find our way home
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Author:
charles69 (
Offline) - Published: January 4th, 2023 08:04
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments1
This was a touching piece that goes deeper than the surface. In a sense we are all homeless but we all have a home inside ourselves that we can find when we need it. I felt the layering in this piece and it required more than one reading to really appreciate.
Thanks for your thoughtful comment.I feel like I learned something from the comment. Did I comment on a poem of yours earlier today? I still haven't learned to navigate this site. Maybe I saw a poem of yours listed but haven't commented yet. Thanks again
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