You are homeless. I am not.
Desperation comes in flavors
all mixed up in anger’s soup.
The sign your other half has posted:
“Will Will Will Will Work for Food.”
You chat like hens in busy yards,
just watching traffic pass you by.
I am driving Easy Street
and want to stop, but God
it’s hard to tell if I would simply
make the evening’s cloud of pity
turn a very hated shade of black.

I think I’d be an imposition.
Mats unwelcome. Very envied.
Advising rats are dimes in dozens.
Every window rolling up like
drawing bridges to a castle
in advance of treasures lost.
I have been to lucky wells
of money falling from the stars.
Inheriting a stubborn streak
but also ways to help me walk.

We will always know too well
the rows of eyes asphyxiating
every muscle trying like
the devil’s angel oxymoron
flying through an empty sky.
A rainbow will erase our lives
and we will go down under
battles others never have to see.

The chalk on boards of
tragic lives is dust to some.
For many it is merely mold.
I use you like an empty page
retaining where I might have gone.
Why is justice fast asleep?
I almost vomit gratitude.
See my feeble bones as blessings,
almost Band-Aids of the dawn.

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Updated August 10, 2000