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I met a homeless man in a park near my house and this is his story. |
He's forgotten his future already. The one soaked in rum and rolled in dreams waking up next to possibilities and potential, the stepchildren of suburbia. But I think he left them back with his job back with his future. however amputated it may be (sometimes vodka's sharper than any scalpel could ever hope to be) how did he get here? or there or there it makes no difference they're all his home now or rather his lack there of. you see he's got a real nice place. Five gazebos, two benches and a fountain in the middle. But the real selling point was the location, right in the middle of downtown suburban Wheaton, mind you it was a park. and he could be "evicted" at any time by a loathingly "concerned" soccer mom who's trying to clean up the city while her kids do drugs in her perfect Ikea basement. This wasn't the plan, but life gets in the way bills get in the way parents get in the way. Underneath the stench of alcohol and broken promises there is a nine year old boy looking for his mom or rather finding her. Needle full of his own future stuck in her arm telling him to "come sit by Mamma" a nine year old shouldn't know the inner workings of a crack house so intimately but it's hard not to when you were raised in one. His chances for success went right up his arm along with half the poppies in Asia. "Get a job" is his forced mantra. Beaten into his head by strangers since he was fifteen. Sorry, but the job market for 37 year old reformed heroin junkies living in parks is a lot slimmer than one might expect. So he lets his organs stew in a nice broth of ripple, mad dog and hindsight. Slowly flooding the perfectly appointed Ikea basement he's dreamt of since he was nine years old. |