The Photograph. Poem by Michael Cochrane

An old man with wornout shoes, huddled in a old closed shop doorway, dog at his lap sleeps. Dreaming memories that fall like raindrops on the wet pavement.
Nearby the Merchant city people drinking lattes, pose and take selfies, they don't see the homeless, selfish, with hearts of stone.
The years have gone slowly by when he lost his love, he clutches her photograph in his hand, tears run down his face, just another lost soul of the human race.
Michael Cochrane ©️ 2025