A soft knock on a dilapidated door,
The door to a homeless home
In shackles; enough to signify
The dearth of money.
Enough perhaps, to also signify the paucity
Of hope, heart and hearth.
This home, a cage for the raucous rage
Which eats into the spirit
Of the boy’s mother and father,
Burdening them with more
Than they will ever be able to hold.
The boy astounds me.
He resides ordinarily in his home,
With windows through which
Stares curtly the stark reality
Of nothingness, and beyond.
Yet, he is unperturbed,
Unlike his parents, a childish grin
Still adorns his grimy face.
Perhaps it is the fact that
He has not yet seen the world, neither
The filth that barges through
The doors of his home,
The lack of opportunity and meaning,
The flood of disease that infests his life.
Or perhaps he has the courage to smile,
The virulence to chase his dreams,
to believe In goodness and leave behind his