Friday afternoon

No one stops to look.
It’s a Friday.  Everybody’s busy, 
Thinking about the weekend.
The wind’s blowing intermittent rain
And it’s set to be like this for days.

Maybe they don’t see you,
Huddled by the church;
Just off the thoroughfare,
Not moving;
Head sunk, face down,
Searching out the only warmth.

They say that it's fatigue:
Worse for the observer in the end;
Impossible to help them all;
There’s never any time.
So soon, it's Friday afternoon,
And still so much do to.