“Man up! Hit her!” Dad said,
Watching the affairs from afar,
Mr. Marino got robbed, same lady, same time,
Cut and bruises formed her arms,
Jeans tight wasted, holy for the church,
9PM routine, packet of biscuits and she flees,
Marino closes then so he never prepares,
No sleeves rolled, no fists thrown,
“Next time, I’ll be writing her off!” Dad said,
I wonder why biscuits were so important,
Lady in the limelight of brute men protecting their pocket,
72p was worth the tussle, blood on hands,
Back again, next day, same time,
Same biscuits, same attitude from Marino,
Dad ran out, god help the streets,
Echoing screams, feminine screech.
“Have that, you Bitch! Leave our shops alone!” Dad yelled,
Forehead bled on the sleeping bag,
Under the cover was a small boy, tears flooding,
A biscuit half left on his lips,
Cried for mummy, mummy cried for him,
Feminine hands cover his head from the blow,
Her pockets torn out as pennies dropped,
My dad picked up every last one.
More about the Poem...
This poem features the negative attitude people have on the homeless and more particularly showcases the stories that these unfortunate people may have compared to the stereotype a lot of us set for people with this status. Although this stereotype can be true in most cases, there are also other factors that come into play such as children on the streets and people having to commit crimes to survive due to the state of the country and how there is never enough funding to protect and nurture the homeless.
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