Seeking Shelter (Poetry)

To a fat millionaire it might just be a slum
but a homeless man sees it more like a palace
it probably depends by which highway they’ve come
and how keen for a rest from the weather’s cold malice

So where is the roof that can shrug off the rain
held by four sturdy walls in a quiet modest street?
And where are the rooms be they ever-so plain
for some to call home and regard it as sweet?

The tumbledown hovel, the old rotting shack
the flea-ridden bedsit so horribly cramped
the concrete cell highrise, the grim back-to-back
stand squalid and cheerless, designed to be damp

Every place has its tenants with no other choice
than to curl in a corner and pray hard for sleep
as these overlooked poor with no powerful voice
the rose round the door just a pipe dream they keep