It’s broken now.
The iron roof once torn
By bullets lets the rain in.
On the concrete floor lie
Puddles of oil and water
And a homeless man
Wrapped in newspapers

The new sound of seagulls
Is broken by a single car.
Then silence returns
To the warehouse,
Sheltering broken dreams
And the right to be poor.

Leaves rustle on a window sill,
And the sea,
Which never used to come here
Licks the walls,
Tasting the salt it left here
Yesterday.

The old man opens his eyes,
Rubs them
From the blur of broken sleep,
And remembers that this
Is now his only home.