it is dawn…
It is dawn or the moment before dawn
a heavy mist is sleeping on the Thames
in our rags and black togas, bearded
and turbaned we gather at the bank
smudging like columns of newspaper text
There are so many of us, so many.
We would cough if our lungs could hack it
weep if our ducts were not clogged with soot
perhaps, yes, even pity each other.
Our bundles of hope like smothered infants
dragged or abandoned, our flesh clinging
with the certainty of snow, we could fall
into one another’s arms for comfort but
There are too many of us, too many
