GIRL ON THE STREET

What happened to her,
the girl in the doorway,
her right hand held out,
cupped, and you can see
the ingrained grime
and dirty finger nails;
and when last did
she wash her hair
or have a bath, or
clean anything at all?
When last did she sleep
in a bed or lay her head
on a pillow that didn't stink?
And can she recall
eating at a table
with clean crockery,
and no one swearing,
and food not crushed
into the floor, gone black,
and the reek from
a corner
of urine?

Was she beaten by her dad,
and made to drop her pants
so he could feel, and
if she breathed a word
he'll kill her?

Was she betrayed
by everyone in her life
who should have made
her feel secure, and wanted;
who should have shown her
tenderness and love?

Or did this girl throw her life away
on a whim, for a dare, or
because her boyfriend was throwing
his away and wanted company
on the road he'd taken
to self-destructiion?

I pass her by,
insultating myself
from her failure;
but momentarily
made guilty by it
because I ought to care,
but don't.