He sits, nameless,
On fag strewn floor.
Holes in trousers.
Twenty something,
My son's age.
Looking at the food kiosk.
I am sad for him,
Feed him.
Unsure if I should ask his story.
He thanks me, eyes blank.
I feel bereft for all the broken children,
As if they were my own.
Written by
Christine Beebee
On fag strewn floor.
Holes in trousers.
Twenty something,
My son's age.
Looking at the food kiosk.
I am sad for him,
Feed him.
Unsure if I should ask his story.
He thanks me, eyes blank.
I feel bereft for all the broken children,
As if they were my own.
Written by
Christine Beebee
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