William F. Polden Sr. Poetry

I hold tight to my jacket as the cold wind whips,
the cold catches my ribs as my jacket doesn't zip.

I look for a place to sleep, in the evening air,
walking in a hurry, as nobody seems to care.

My spot under a bridge I place down some clothes,
extra pants as a pillow, a shirt for bed is how it goes.

Under my jacket, seeing spiders all about me,
shivering,I can't understand all this that I see.

Broken glass I look at peices laying all around,
dream of a bath and bed somewhere in this town.

It's cruel way some people often can play to hurt,
Miserable, I'm stuck to wishing a blanket for my shirt.

Poet: William F. Polden Sr.