Many Mansions

hope is a thing with father’s that perches on the soul.
said the homeless young man standing there strong against the cold.
I reached into my pocket said a penny for your poetry.
but when I handed him a dollar bill he was shaking his head at me.
and he said these words to me.
In my father’s house are many mansions though tonight some make their beds
along the streets.
where I’ve seen lives still by winter’s bitter chill.
In my father’s house there’s mansion for me sleep is a silent pleasure behind
door’s with deadbolt locks, but it’s a concrete nightmare chance you take on
the streets in a cardboard box.
but I know about the eye of the needle what will come to pass when the least of
us shall be first and the first now shall be last.
who’s homeless now I ask.
In my father’s house are many mansions.
though tonight some make their beds along the streets where I’ve seen lives
still by winter’s bitter chill.
In my father’s house there’s mansion for me.
In my father’s house are many mansions.
though tonight some make their beds along the streets.
where I’ve seen lives still by winter’s bitter chill.