The coldest night I ever knew
the wind out of the arctic blew
long frigid blasts; and I was you.
We huddled close then: yes, we two.
For I had left my house to rue
such bitter weather, being you.
Our empty tin cup sang the Blues,
clanged hollow, empty. Carols few
were sung to me, for being you.
For homeless us, all men eschew.
They beat us, roust us, jail us too.
It isn’t easy, being you
Poem by Michael R. Burch