Homeless, by Julie Achilles

'Any loose change'? you ask a you sit there on the cold, dirty pavement, not making eye-contact.
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I throw in a fifty-pence piece into your empty cup, it makes me feel better, not you.

I wonder as I briefly study your appearance and wonder at your age and ask myself 'where is your mother'?

Walking on to work I know I will see you there again tomorrow, and the day after, and I worry that the weather report forecasts snow.