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Poems from the street.

by Moarzjasac

Rated: E · Folder · Other · #1980482

A collection of the poems from the street

In a world like ours, it is natural
to diligently seek wide-eyed innocence
instead of the plastic smiles that hide
fear and machinations.

There are so few left with the air of sanity,
they mostly inhabit the byways
and out-of-the way places
like a cardboard box.

They bring with them
a kind of truth
you cannot deny.
“wisdom,” born of experience.

They walk in the places
we desperately try not to see.
We disbelieve simple reality
when we watch talking heads on TV.

They know, deep in their hollow eyes,
the poorest live the pictures
of all the places I wanted to avoid.
As if I, with my refusal to see, can make it all disappear.

There is nowhere I can really hide.
I must learn how to survive
the insanity of "The World of Now."
My disapproval means nothing.

It takes its rightful place right beside me
on the gray weather-worn park-bench
I wait patiently, wishing I had something
to feed the pigeons, when I haven't eaten in days.

The Charity Kitchen under the bridge opens soon,
I can smell the coffee in the shiny stainless urns.
There is oatmeal, grits, sausage patties and eggs
steaming warmly on the other side of a pair of doors.

I have been here for hours, waiting patiently
For my one sure hot meal today!
As seven AM creeps closer and the sleepy sun
slowly climbs high enough to light the shadows.

Others concealed from me earlier by darkness,
are revealed as hulking shadows of once proud men.
They now wait for a meal and the little something extra
for each person who enters the Charity Kitchen.

I am slowed by encroaching blindness.
Aided perhaps by a degree of stubbornness,
I come; I go, pretty much undisturbed by anyone.
If I am early, I eat! No option of laziness.

They like me here; I do not mind washing dishes,
scrubbing cook pots, and mopping floors.
If they see me before the morning rush,
I can enter by a side door, eat and go to work.

Sometimes, the government leaves us big cans of cheese.
Why do I feel like a rat when I take sandwiches with me?
I console myself that I'll share with anyone with a bottle,
wine and cheese and bread, like communion.

We make our Sanctuary
In a rarely used alley
Leaning against a wall
of disintegrating brick.

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