In the corner, where the station building
Meets the park wall,
Dirt runs into dirt;
The old tramp has left his mouldy blanket and damp newspapers
In search of a crust of bread and a swill of dregs.
Plastic bags and a few rags damp
With the early morning rain
Are strewn about.
There are strips of screwed up cardboard on the ground,
Residua of the previous week’s resting place.
The road sweeper is abroad,
Pushing his cart into a recess
He advances on the unhappy pile,
Broom in one hand, shovel in the other,
Until a voice rings out in the chill morning air:
Hey man: that’s somebody’s home!
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