by Michael R. Burch
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 lost your 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.
Published by Street Smart, First Universalist Church of Denver, Mind Freedom Switzerland and on 20+ web pages supporting the UN Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities