Not like this, in the street, alone,
remembering the silk and the perfume,
forgotten to be invited, left out, asked to leave.
The man stared past me with dull eyes and half-smile,
then he asked slowly if I had ever had to sleep in the street,
or eaten off a dust bin. If I had ever not bathed for days and days, because…
he stopped and we sat there in the rain.
I had come to give him a blanket.
He would not take it. It reminded him of soft things he said.
Two days later he died and,
his rich family came to take him.
He was no use they said.
These are the days I write and write,
what would he have been if he had-
should I stop asking,
and write about soft things..