If I craved warmth, I would seek a fire, a fireplace, an arm, a loving embrace.
Being cold, I would shun metal, pavement, and the barren outdoors.
But she scampers with her baggage down the concrete block.
Plopping down on metal grates to enjoy the vapours steaming up her padded rump.
Keep your pennies.
Her thoughts aren’t cheap.
All she needs is the heat.
She isn’t begging.
And needs neither your money nor your sympathy.
The wages of sympathy she knows intimately:
medication and incarceration.
Forgoing a hearth,
she hoards the grate.
aloft with her musings,
Her plight no more predictable than the thoughts she churns.