Homelessness

Homelessness

The wet snow and the black trees and the smoky train

Like a current that runs under everybody’s—

no matter what they do

Is it good?  It’s life.  Is it good?  It’s life.

                                                                                Mark Halliday

                                                                                Chekov

I

The homelessness there isn’t

typical or cliché it isn’t cliché or brown paper

bag thicker in the shack

and a pack of dogs humping and pissing

the gutter loved bare down

to the rock and sometimes deeper

into the gully ground.  This here is city

poor and they stand with their names

in their hands and beg

at the stop lights and they come right up

to your car and knock and wait

for your window and the clean

air inside and maybe a five and maybe

a little more and God Bless You
for your kindness

II

I remember after I was driven out
of town I was at a toll

booth once I was groping myself through

for enough loose change to pass and dropped the last one

and only quarter I had

on the floor and needed

to step out

to find it in the home dirt my boots

left off and handed it to the man

and he said thank you and you have

a nice day and maybe it was

raining and I was sure

I wasn’t going

to have a nice day but then

right in that second, under all that

concrete and kneeling then standing

then sitting I felt dry and it was like

church when the plate gets passed

and I have a one or a five

and I fold it out and hold it out

and it’s all I have or ever will

that day and something says you did

good you got away and someone somewhere says

it’s God’s plan your sweaty paper is planted

into the soup

they spoon every Saturday night

at the AA table

III

and I’m about half way

home in another city when I see a boy

who reminds me

of you, who’s walking down the slope

side of the hill and he is losing

his footing and falling some

but coming up straight

and I’m not entirely sure why but I followed him

in my mind and all the way

home and I know homelessness

has booked a room

and has your four walls and a roof

and it is a place you come to

when you won’t go home

to the tongue clicking clichés I told you

sos and instead the repeat

button’s pushed in and it drools

and you take it off the hook

the way you do your phone or your shoes

and you make excuses
for the mold

in the tub and toilet you make excuses

for the spongy kitchen floor near to

the sink and the sometime sprung rat

traps underneath and one next to

the cracked bean crock on the counter

but behind it so you almost don’t

notice and you make excuses for the dog

shit you haven’t picked up in the bedroom

or even (maybe this is your subtle keep

out sign) out to the left of

the doorstep, an incline you ask yourself if you want

if you need fix to climb and you ask it

every day and you asked it this morning

when you came back from shooting

the dog and you say at least

I got a roof (you’ve shut off two of the three

bedrooms for mildew) and at least I’ve got a flush

and at least I’ve got a fridge

and you roll a joint and you smoke

to the king of the palace

IV

and you’ve shut off

your phone so you’ve missed

the call from DHS

who will be there to follow up

to see if you’re feeding your kid if the (and isn’t this

your biggest

cliché today) black and blue

places the 1^st grade teacher noticed

(you’ll get that bitch you say under your teeth

at the meeting) and you’ll  say yes, welcome, yes

it’s the best

I can do I’m laid

up I’m laid off (I ain’t getting

laid) though you don’t say that you can’t

you know but don’t you want

to don’t you before the bus

stops and he hops off and runs home

home to his one cereal bowl going

scummy in the sink from the morning

milk and no toast left but Fuck don’t

they feed you at school anyway

you ungrateful little

piece of shit?