Bathurst street

The restless linger on the corners,
their ghosts just one tactful step behind.
Circling red light crossings like mourners.
Sanity beckons, but who are the blind?
 

Strangers bow their heads in masked sorrow
as they pass the waking people of the street.
Unsung heroes give their lives to borrow
smiles from the helpless they seek to meet.
 

Graffiti on burdened walls, a stifled cry in paint
- for deliverance; taken in by children’s eyes.
Worn-out shoes shuffle over broken glass and fries,
ice cream is spilled by sinner and saint.
 

Men of morale remonstrate in full bloom,
a hint of sadness shivers in the gloom.
Yet, a breeze of hope drags all these feet
the long way down, up Bathurst Street.