Not going home.
The streets we walk she calls home.
As I close and lock my front door,
she buttons her coat and turns her collar against the chill.
As I lay down in my soft, clean white sheets,
my duvet pulled up high keeping me warm and safe,
she sits on a street bench, hard, cold and exposed.
She is me but for the roll of a dice
I am her but for fate.
Not going home because,
... she hasn't got one