Hope

By the rose garden door, of Saint Phillip Neri, she watches the poor, cross Catherine Street, in their eyes a need, linen can'twash clean, the soul of lost hordes, for some a little weed, sun falls as they walk, every evening an entry, when life is cheap, it's a beggar's party, all of them taught, you don't need judiciary, to shoplift a store, only truth is to scurry, not be indentified, brought before a jury, each part of thought, is the stuff of poverty, now and then caught, between moon and sea.