Non-Erotic PoetryShe called him LukeHe arrived a squalling scrap of humanity,
fatherless with a child mother,
in a world of runaways scrabbling for existence.
Wrapped in a T shirt clamped
to a scrawny breast he suckled, eyes unfocused,
amid the stench of poverty and squalor.
Dawn's hard bright light and another bundle
of detritus in a darkened corner,
the remains of two brief lives.
She'd loved him and called him Luke.
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