Hope: Memoirs of a Homeless Vagabond

"[...] beneath the glitter and glitz, the diamonds and black velvet, deep below, the Metropolis' heart beats; down in the sewers and gutters, where its dearest families live."

                      -- Paul Theroux; Memories of New York City--
 


 She had come to hate it -- Hope.
 The word. The sound. The concept. The unabashed cruelty of it all.
 That's all anyone ever gave her -- Hope. Wrapped in short change.
 A few were bills. But a buck is a buck -- paper or metal.
 A dollar's worth of Hope -- that's all she ever could get for one.
 And there were many -- a dollar at a time. A dollar a day.
 Always. A dollar's worth of Hope. 
 
 Hope was a lie. Hope was a beautiful fairytale.
 Hope was a ploy; an excuse.
 Hope was diversion. Hope was perpetuation.
 Hope was no solution; nor was a direction.
 Hope. Was a compass without a magnet.
 Hope was her; sunken eyes, ruffled hair.
 She sat under that park bench; still savoring yesterday's meal.
 As she thirsts for tomorrow's rain.

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