A Child Of The Streets
A child wanders in a metropolis jungle
of fifteen million people or more.
Too frightened to ask for any help
hungry, thirsty, tired, sore.
Reddened eyes that once wept
for hours, days and weeks.
Unwashed clothes and body,
but who cares if one reeks.
Parent’s advice about strangers
remains ingrained in the mind,
ready to run if sweets are offered
hard to tell if they were just being kind.
No more thought given to loneliness,
survival’s hard when you’re young and alone.
In a dark alley at the rear of a restaurant
is a bed of cardboard and a garbage bin scone.
A day spent looking for food, clothing and money,
running from pimps, perverts and police.
Cornered whilst eating a stolen apple by the river,
police and social workers have a child of the streets.
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Comments about this poem (A Child Of The Streets by Orlando Belo )
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