Under the bridge

Beneath the concrete bridge
lies a shelter, cold but dry,
a blessing in this city wide,
with enough designer shape
to make a home
with a concrete wall
and a cardboard floor,
and some sheets to
see off night’s heartless wind.

And all the treasures of this world
lie in that space no bigger
that an outside toilet:
here is a cracked radio
and some yellowed books
still with the card and stamps,
together with an impressive
pile of newspapers, quite
forgotten under the pylons, cold-lit

Here the sounds of cars and trucks
mingle discordant with the whimper of the
lonely dog that waits for its companion
who may never return to
this prime but affordable real estate;
but the dog waits with rope
around his loyal neck, unneeded
for it will always stay and never go,
for there is nowhere else to be.

Scattered under the bridge
are other homes of equal worth and less,
whose owners sleep cold comfort
under the solemn eye of misty moon,
and wait for morning filtered light
when the treasure hunt and the searching
on the streets will begin in earnest once again.