Small shaky hands
desperately reach out for your attention,
like a flashing camera
taking your picture
when you least expect it.

They gently clutch your perfectly sewn pants,
their eyes are as crazed and wild
as a prancing antelope
being pursued by a hungry lion,
thirsty for blood.

Their mouths salivate at the sound
of the enticing spare change jingling
in your designer made slacks.

The young children
faintly camouflage into the gray walls
and cement as cold as their hearts.
Bellies rumble,
some as loud as thunder
making your heart feel as empty
as their food pantry caked in dust
as you guiltily stride past them,
without a second glance.

The place they call home
has a few rotting beams
supporting the small shack
from collapsing,
ending their life before it even started.

Shards of glass
as sharp as swords remain
underneath the aged window sill
which are now boarded up
with scraps of cardboard,
blocking out the sunshine
and instead filling in the darkness.

The leaky roof is scattered
with plastic sheets
of blue, black, gray, and white,
draping over the small shack completely
hiding itself from the world.
Making it in charge
of providing security and warmth
as if it was a loving mother.
cradling its baby.

Walls made of wood
are thick as a sheet of ice,
are sharp enough to inject slivers,
but will not hesitate to stand up
and defend the living against the hurdles
and wind trying to blow it down.