“His home’s that rubbish bin,” they yell
as they cycle by on their new BMX bikes,
bought for them by proud father.
A stone is thrown, a boy yells, “Tramp.”
No pity, no love – just indifference,
the boy walks away … home.

I go to Crystal Palace and sit in the Park,
my feet are wet with sweat and pus from blisters.
Mosquitoes drink freely on my bare skin,
I watch as each is gorged and flies away –
little friendless wanderers, I’ll not hurt you.

Children running in the Park, “Tramp!”
“Ain’tcha gotta home mister?”
“Nice bin over here mister, smells luvly mister!”
I wish they’d go, leave me in peace,
and yet their taunts fill my lonely space.

There is no more lonely time than dusk,
the people leave the park, heading home,
day withdraws into semi-gloom.
People walking dogs become less,
the streetlights come on: and I?

I wait for the darkness of night,
I wait to find my bed and hope it isn’t wet,
don’t let it rain. I snort half-laugh –
there’s rain enough in my heart.
Please can I have a warm night?