Queen of the Streets

De man he don't look at me no more
from where he still sits on that golden throne.
He casts a stone-cold glare into distant sky,
turned inward, nothing but a mote in his eye.
Doesn't see ‘neath my coats of colors,
a ragged and patched flickering soul,
there burns a resigned heart who waits;
“Will he ever call me home?"
Slow painful shuffle in too large shoes
tied with knotted grimy lace,
pushing grocery cart down the street
to silently drift in a dark city that weeps.
Forsaken dream on my face, fallen from grace
by fact that I grew old, and nobody knows
that I was once a daughter, mother, lover.
Now not known, unclaimed—not mine!
A keeper of dreams that used to sing
now crowned queen of the damned,
in the kingdom of the unspoken.

Gummed mouth, sleep-dried eyes
ratted hair covered with old knitted hat,
tufting out of crazy holes.
To patiently wait on a park bench;
head nodding time—keeping time,
'till homeless shelter is open.
Humming under breath not heard,
hands that weep in despair no more.
Fingers templed—mumbled words,
throwing crumbs to the pigeons
that flutter around weary feet;
“Who will throw crumbs to me?”
Surely not de man
from where he still sits on that golden throne,
he don't look at me no more.