The Wretched

Photo by Mika on Unsplash

Their fingers get hard
like sticks
That could poke into things
and not get hurt
Only more dirty

Skin gets a permanent ash
especially on the face and arms
The smell is distinct
like spoiled fruit
All of this is unwashable

Faces are the same
They freeze in resignation,
sadness and a mean “carry on”
No choice but to try
for a crumb from a world with
too much bread to hold

I am told by a friend among them
that their lives are rich
nevertheless
Dramas, loves and stories
unfold like the dirty laundry
they constantly hang

With so little, and
so much lost
Could they hurt as you and I?
Isn’t it just another day?

Or are they battered
In need of long rests
that will never arrive
Milk, fresh fruit and medicine
Loving touch on thickened skin