He steals her purse anyway

Mum's hope nightly lost in a bottle,
he roams the streets just one more
guttersnipe among many.
The mean streets providing a chance
here and there to earn a few quid,
pilfering from the corner shop
or a look out for one of the gangs
of older guys. Learning his trade but
steering clear of men whose carnal
desires he doesn't quite understand.

His Grandma waits and wonders,
her hands tied by authorities who
can't or won't see the danger.
She'd have him in a shot and try
to raise him right, before it's too late.
He visits sometimes still pulled
by the joys of biscuits in a tin,
but he steals her purse anyway.

Poetry Survivor
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