Nobody tells you about the spiders

There are - people -
who are in trouble out there.

A moment of trauma. A moment
of tragic misfortune. A moment
of insurmountable despair.

We are, any of us,
but the wrong detours
from the gutter.

No one knew me; nobody
knocked on the door -
Nobody phoned.

You ever tried to get some identification,
without some identification?

Quite literally invisible.

Nobody tells you about the spiders.
Nobody tells you
about the weeping foot sores
from all the walking.

Nobody tells you
about the nail fungus.

Or the heatstroke, or
the musculoskeletal disorders.

The compromised immune systems.
The respiratory diseases.

A perfect storm of rheumatoid arthritis,
cancer, alcoholism, domestic abuse
and depression.

You feel hopeless,
not being able to wash, not being able
to feel human.

That’s the worst bit.

The last shall be first
and the first shall be last
this morning. The meek
shall inherit the porridge.

Not knowing where
your next meal is going to come from,
that’s very stressful.

The anxiety builds in solitude
and the food
gets tough to swallow.

Witnessing the most overwhelming
social emergency;
through the lens
of the ones you love
the most.

I ‘FOUND’ this Poem in a five-page feature piece on 'homelessness' written by Trent Dalton, and published recently in The Weekend Australian Magazine.

Dream - intentionally