Whose little babe is this?
Who now slumbers on a city sidewalk
Bundled in a tattered sleeping bag
In back of a brick and mortared building
Knocked crooked by time.
Whose little boy is this?
Who now wakes in a garden of cigarette butts
And abandoned pages of old newspapers
On ragged cement
Where only the most desperate weeds
Dare to grow.
Whose mother’s son is this?
Who now pulls himself up and out
Of the brief escape of sleep
And stands in icy morning air
Extending his thoughts only as far
As the ashen tip of the smoldering cigarette
He sips like a cool, sweet glass of juice.
All his generations reduced to this,
A life too young for such resignation,
Too old for much renewal,
Too far from home
This lost child.
Russ Loar, "Lost child".