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
Today’s burden is all I can bear,
my tears need time to dry.
My thoughts, a baggage of distress
Take tomorrow and cast it
down the cellar steps.
Toss it off the roof , bury it deep,
never look beyond the horizon.
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
“Feed the birds and you feed the angels”.
St. Francis of the streets.
His watery blue eyes
Grime accents the lines on his pale forehead
and thin cheekbones.
Why wash your face when you sleep on
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.