No doors, no walls, no structure You call it home But it’s our world in which I refer to And stomach growls and hunger pangs concur With words I construct While looking into the dam like eyelids Of fresh outta womb pre-grave Orphans Offering themselves as entertainment For the scraps we’ve tossed away for the past three weeks While the Weak and the meek intertwine, And though God promises they will inherit the Earth Their worth withers Like kitten’s carcass whiskers while we, Don’t give, don’t offer, don’t notice their existence Or the baseball bats swinging homerun like yells for help at us And Tattooed S.O.S. on our foreheads While their community takes communion with cemeteries’ Residency… We see them as refugees, as lost souls, But they build on experience’s Tragedy Like the re-creation of Babylon from the rubble of recluse And in turn See US as outcasts, As black sheep, as the ones who in actuality— Need help. ***