Anger

She clings to the underbelly 
of society's fringe 
clinging like a baby possum 
at its mama's soft fur. 
Floundering among the city's 
citizenry 
clutching at crumbs 
sifting through dregs 
sick 
physically declining 
with a weakening heart. 
(but plenty of spirit) 
Medicine's but a paltry balm 
she's courted by, 
nipped at, 
by Death. 
"Unproductive". 
"Unimportant". 
Still, poetry is Saviour, 
keeping her grounded 
on this perplexing path 
the maddening maze 
of infirmity 
need 
too worn to really "live" 
too driven to die.

"Sick"