Huddled under cardboard,
Old Annie shivers.
Surrounded by layers of rags and bags,
Scavenged bits hoarded against the cold,
Shoved into cracks, or
Worn as a layered mantle
No room open for her tonight
No place to warm her tired bones
They say it’s not cold enough.
The winds howl,
Sweeping down these city streets
Stirring up ghosts of every December
Those souls who couldn’t be saved
No place to warm their bones
No room opened for them
Someone said it’s not cold enough.