As I look through my Window
They come and go, with their carts full of clothes, belongings. They lay matresses and sheets on the sidewalk. The trains passing by seems not to bother them. At night they cover their “new beds” with more sheets creating the sensation of a tent in the desert.
But is here, in wealthy San Francisco. Hundreds of them. Do anyone waits for them? To whom do they talk? There is no one around to greet them or share a meal with.
Do we care?
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