The Cold Streets

The sidewalk’s a bed that never gets warm,
Cardboard for a pillow, a doorway for a dorm.
The wind cuts through the coat that’s three sizes too thin,
Every night’s a gamble on whether dawn lets you in.

Hands cupped around a lighter’s dying flame,
Nobody on the street will ask your name.
You’re invisible to everyone who passes by,
Just another shadow learning how to cry
Without making a sound, because sound draws attention,
And attention down here is never the kind you’d mention.

The shelters fill up faster than the lies politicians tell,
So you find your spot beneath the overpass and wish yourself well.
Morning breaks with a stranger’s coat draped across your chest,
A cup of coffee left beside your head–small mercies from the blessed.
But the cold streets don’t forgive, and they don’t forget your face,
They just keep grinding, night after night, at the same relentless pace.