love and milk

like human loaves
of old bread,
staled by time and age,
they lie on the grates
across the city, huddled
together. day or night
makes no difference,
the steam rising into
the crust of torn blankets.
seeping into
the soles of boots,
keeping the dying
alive through another
February night. they
are impossibly removed
from the cribs they once
slept in, the babies
they once were, held close
to their mother's breast
for love and milk.