You Don't See Me

What is more devastating,
  learning how to live in the next level of poverty, or
  learning how to live with the next level of shame?

I am here...see me?
  Look down.  Here I am, sitting on the curb.
  I live behind the facade of the American Dream.

I don't blame you for not wanting to look.
  I wouldn't either.  I wouldn't want to see the shame,
  the failure that I am.  I wouldn't want to see me.

Yet, I live with this conundrum...I must eat.
  And, I must find a place to relieve myself,
  for I cannot stop my bodily functions...much as
  I know that would make us both more comfortable.

And, I must sleep...somewhere.
  I must sleep.

But, this has all become so hard, you know.

The night is dangerous on the streets,
  so I must stay awake at night.  It is,
  you know, my survival.

But then, whilst asleep in my car that next day,
  I was roused by the tapping on my window
  of the billy club belonging to that policeman
  who told me,

'You are not allowed to sleep in your car
  during the day.  It is against the law.'

Long ago, I remember living in a house.
  It had a bed and I slept at night.  And...
  it had a bathroom.

I never imagined that I would wake each morning,
  wondering where I could go to the bathroom that day,
  if I would be allowed into the bathroom at the local store,
  or if I might be kicked out because my clothes were too dirty,
  or too smelly.

I never imagined that.

I never imagined that financial collapse would be
  such a cascade of loss, or that one slip could
  put me back...again...and again...and again.

And yet, here I sit
  on this street corner,
  in the rain and in my humiliation.

And, you don't see me.