She stands outside of Waitrose with her mags
Saying: "Big Issue?" to those passing by
Who walk past with their heavy laden bags
As if her meek existence was a lie.
Sometimes some friendly faces stop and chat,
And pass her a quick fiver as they go.
An old man says something they both smile at
He makes her laugh and her face seems to glow.
Yet most people ignore her as they pass,
But still they stare at her poor withered arm,
They walk by like their hearts are made of glass,
Though hidden 'neath their eyes there's guilt and harm.
I hope that for the next half of my life,
I'll pay more heed to other people's strife.