In the wide open areas of Patterson Park,
Located in Balitmore’s Dundalk community,
As men and women, young and old, make their way pass picnic tables and tennis courts
As I walk through Patterson Park,
On a very windy and brisk early Sunday morning
I notice the many homeless men and women lying underneath their blankets,
Rolling about like loose bottles on an abandoned ship,
They snore like grizzly bears hibernating,
As if in a cave, they moan, they groan,
Like feeble old men, without any concept of firm direction,
I see an old man about 70 or so,
He walks with a cane, but he talks with Billy his imaginary friend,
The old man whines and he cries, he screams, he shouts
“Why weren’t you there?” he yells at Billy,
In the far south of Patterson Park, another homeless man is just rising from his sleep,
He jabs his finger in the air,
And shouts ‘no justice for the poor, no justice for the poor,’
In my own way, I feel what they feel,
So tell me America is there no justice for the poor?
-August Mallory
