Homeless

He’s out there under blue sky, this is where he came to die, the shadow of this church marks the end of his search. He walked from his street corner, no Little Jack Horner, his palms pointed up for money to sup, or for a shake, a friend to make, a human touch, something he might have missed so much. We always assumed the worst, so often people went by and cursed, Hey, this is America, you slob, go out and get yourself a job, or we looked right through him, a drowning man we left to swim. Did he have no past, was this the role in which he was cast? Did he have no mother, no sister, no brother? Did he have toys and play like all the girls and boys? Did he remember that Thanksgiving back when he was earning a living? Did he make love with a wife, create a new life, or was he sad that he was never called Dad? Whatever his thoughts had been he came to this place of the Father of Men and lay himself down to die, and still was ignored by the passersby. No, we aren’t callous, no, we haven’t any malice, but I heard someone say I wish they’d get him out of the way, so to Potter’s Field he will go and us on with the show.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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