The smell of burnt cake
Fills the kitchen for the third time this week
As she lets out a wail
And wonders how the world could be so cruel;
Making her way to the car, she sulks
At the thought of store-bought dessert
Business as usual.

The smell of vomit and wet dirt
Laden in the air she breathes – she’s used to it by now
As she hugs her piss-soaked blanket close for warmth
Wishing to be home, wherever that may be
In a house, under a bridge, another street even
Anywhere else on Earth
A passerby feels a twinge of sympathy
But had somewhere else to get to
And moved on
Business as usual.