by Rich Banichar

Thoughts of the Homeless


Tomorrow is my worst enemy,

shallow hope sapping my worn strength.

Tomorrow is a thief,

A bluejay stealing anothers eggs.

A mist of fear, emotional toil.

It yields no fruit,

only barren branches on a

winters day.

Today’s burden is all I can bear,

my tears need time to dry.

My thoughts, a baggage of distress

and sadness.

Take tomorrow and cast it

down the cellar steps.

Toss it off the roof , bury it deep,

never look beyond the horizon.


Broken Bread

A drifter, matted gray hair escaping his woolen 

hat, scatters bread crumbs to his feathered audience.

His cracked fingertips draw soiled lint among 

the morsels of crust from his pockets.

His colorless work coat remnant of mass

lay-offs battles the winter winds.

He hasn’t heard a furnace kick on in

quite some time.

A valued guest of soup kitchens, he stashes

hunks of bread to share with sparrows and doves.

He nods his head, mumbles and consecrates

his gift. 

“Feed the birds and you feed the angels”.

St. Francis of the streets.

His watery blue eyes

float sadness.

Grime accents the lines on his pale forehead

and thin cheekbones.

Why wash your face when you sleep on

filthy bedding,

The wind plays music in his ears.

The traveler stares past the ghosts of lost yesterdays.

He longs for the front porch swing

of his childhood.