POETRY
Nostalgia for the Street
Nostalgia for moments of homelessness
--
Enough money in my pocket
to buy black coffee
from Dunkin Donuts
on a winter morning.
Sitting on the brick steps
of the Presbyterian Church,
holding the cup
with two hands for warmth.
Watching businessmen
and women pass by,
the turbulent flow
of a human river.
The patter of soft rain
on my canvas tent,
curled under two thick blankets,
listening to Blind Willie
play the blues deep
in the darkness of our alley.
Washing my faded jeans
and torn t-shirts in the fountain
in the public park
on a mild summer day.
Watching an old man walk
his dog and college students
play frisbee football
while the clothes dry
on a wooden bench.
Shaving and cutting my hair
in the restroom of a strip club.
Looking almost normal
in the broken and mottled mirror,
bebopping like a regular customer
for a night or two,
except for the clothes
hanging off my bones.
Huddled around flames
leaping from a metal barrel
with my quirky tribe
of junkies, delusional souls,
and drug dealers.
Laughing at Mary Jane
and her make-up smeared
on her beautiful and scarred face,
humming Tom Petty songs
into the chill winter wind,
feeling at home in a broken
world for an hour.
Twilight glimmering off the glass
of skyscrapers, the world turned
golden, a call and response
between nature and man,
the hope of redemption
and a day clean.
