In a dream one night having laid down a volume of Dickens,

Sympathetic, almost romantic stroll through London of yesteryear.

Charles is walking beside us, narrating, ruminating, gently nudging

My conscience; I cannot speak for yours. We walk. We walk on.

Little boys and little girls with empty eyes and empty tummies

Along the sidewalks, some hiding, some hustling, some busking.

"Guttersnipe!" The soul behind the voice assumes authority

Not bestowed. If he speaks harshly enough, they will disappear.

Dematerialize. Evaporate. Disperse. Become invisible.

But even if one does, there will be another to take that place.

This gutter is a black hole. Each child is a star that could have been

That might still be.