Wanderers

They trudge along
in their
dirty,
old,
bulky
grey coats.
Mange-infested hair hidden by
itchy wool hats that reek of
loneliness.
 
They push along
all of their belongings
in a rusty old
shopping cart.
There’s not much there:
A hole-covered backpack,
some blankets,
and if they’re lucky,
a few bags of groceries.
 
I don’t know how they got there.
Did they flood their homes
with alcohol?
Did they drive away their families
with angry fists?
Or were they on the receiving end
of their spouses’ rage?
 
Quite frankly it doesn’t matter
why they wander.
All that matters is
they’re human
and they’re
alone.
 
They need my help,
and yet perhaps out of fear,
or selfishness,
I do nothing.
I just watch them trudge along,
lonely,
cold,
and broken.