Every morning
by the corner store,
Clothes tattered
like a patchwork quilt
draped over a forgotten chair,
a forest in his beard,
and weathered eyes
that never quite meet mine.
The world around him sparkles
with tinsel and Christmas joy,
but his cardboard sign whispers
softly in red crayon,
Just need a little help
I wonder if he ever
had a Christmas tree,
a family,
a warm place to rest.
Or maybe this street
has always been home,
the sky above his head
decorated only with stars.
I wish I could leave him with more
than a sympathetic smile,
or a warm blanket,
or a sandwich.
Maybe a piece of hope,
or some magic Christmas dust
to lead him home.
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