The alleyway was starved of sun, <br />no golden beams through it, did run. <br />In this dank murk sat cats on bins, <br />and drunkards sleeping off their sins. <br /> <br />Winds whistled down it, tossing trash, <br />large rats would make a sudden dash. <br />Famished felines would jump and pounce, <br />sending galvanized lids to bounce, <br />onto the ground. Silence broken, <br />swearing now from tenants woken. <br />then all’s quiet, except the snoring, <br />and rodents with strong jaws, gnawing. <br /> <br />Living here is sheer survival. <br />Poverty’s made its arrival. <br />But somehow, in all this squalor, <br />where there’s not one cent or dollar, <br />here people and creatures exist, <br />taking issue with claw and fist. <br />Poor renters face regret and debt, <br />eviction’s a frightening threat. <br /> <br />The alleyway has its own world, <br />Where garbage and abuse gets hurled. <br />Yet in this grim place, all are friends, <br />On one another, each depends. <br /> <br /> <br />© Ernestine Northover<br /><br />Ernestine Northover<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/this-grim-place/
