There’s a long line,
Winding down the lane,
People hunched from the cold,
Arms crossed, heads bowed down.

Nobody talks much,
Except to ask the time
Once in a while;
Everyone cranes there neck
Every now and then,
To check if someone’s headed back,
From the place they’d been in.

There is a an undercurrent
Of tense anticipation;
One senses it in the cold mist,
That escapes as breath,
And is held in suspension –
No warmth from conversation
To dissipate it.

The lone passerby
Stops, and looks in askance,
Nobody bothers to reply;
Words are rationed here,
As is compassion,
That elusive commodity,
They’ve all come seeking,
Before the month is up,
And they’re thrown out,
Onto the streets,
That will have everyone,
And yet no one.