Dogged Hope

Stubborn hope
Dogged hope
What makes hope dogged?
Is it because he is happy to see
the same master that whips him at will?
Or is it because he digs
with claws persistent, till he has found
the morsel he seeks?
Maybe because he bravely leaps into the path of his oversized troublers and courageously or foolishly barks in their faces

Hope is a woman
sitting up after the lights have gone
with food on the table
and heat ready to make it warm again;
for the man who may or may not come,
who will be intoxicated with cheap liquids,
who will eat greedily and ungraciously
and who will leave handprints on her skin
like some kind of violent biometric,
but she never expects it

Hope is three children
sleeping on cartons laid on the cold floor,
clutching raggedy ragdolls
in a dark, dank space
each dreaming of a different place
where there is warmth
and there is light
and heaps of food one could eat for days
and a father who while the sun shines makes hay

Hope is the massess
waiting patiently and noisily
for the chance to change their fate.
Noisily, because we fear the silence,
we fear it might speak to us
of a dark tunnel end.
With no shield from the uncaring sun
we stand and chatter,
ready to ink our thumbs.
For what is the hot sun
when laid side-by-side
with the sizzling frying pan
in which we have lived the last four years?