Tasting buttercups
dipped in dew, golden speckles
light up dusted chins.
Open doorways through
watchful houses, curtains rent.
Weekly wages spent.
Sleeping in doorways,
shiver-wrapped, counting pennies.
Nothing made for rent.
Homeless hands empty;
no one carries cash today.
Is this their future?
We hang bird feeders,
but nothing for human mouths,
yet we could be them.
Copyright Vickie Johnstone, March 2, 2021
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