Concrete beds wrote tales of stone

Frigid air waked flesh and bone

Breaking bread, humbled, alone

I blessed each day the sun still shone

Crying skies lent ballad’s blues,

Gratefulness for leather shoes

And sanctuary’s wooden pews

Kept confession’s tears from view

Tiny blossoms sprang with hope

Pen to paper’s how I’d cope

Haikus carved in cardboard coats

Cleansing me though sans of soap

Summer sun’s gold elements

Tempered my discouragement

In villanelles, weeping laments

I found my heart’s encouragement

Leaves decayed on brittle grass

Shortened days, gold never lasts

As naked trees stood, unabashed

I held my head high, this shall pass

Winter never broke my will

The passion raged inside me, still

Frostbit fingers gripping quills

“Homeless” only honed my skills

Until today, with fire waned

This finale verse drips from my veins

Graphite scratches, lead leaves stains

Of dying words, I pray remain

A cup of change from skipping meals

Sharing what no streets can steal

I signed my obit., stamped and sealed

Expressing death and how it feels

“Precious stones capture our gaze

But, only flint yields fire’s blaze

Growing cold in worlds of gray

Without my voice, I died today”

...

It’s funny, really.

How we stare from our balconies at the ants scurrying below. How we pass them on the streets—the wanting eyes, the starving mouths, the empty hands. Hair stiff as wire, clothing an amalgam of layered coats and scarves, mismatched socks, worn-out sandals.

We pass them, and we think.

That could never be me.

Look at here. Look at now. In this moment, I’m all set. We get so acclimated to small comforts that our minds can’t even meet them halfway down. We can’t see ourselves in their shoes. Our imaginations just aren’t that big.

I used to think like that. Before the divorce and the alimony, before the recession, before the unemployment and fire and the insurance company refusing to compensate because I didn’t insure every blade of grass in my yard or knick-knack in my study.

I downsized to a trailer. But welfare cut my benefits again five months ago, and just like that I was another ghost at the panhandle. It all happened so slow. It all happened so fast.

And time don’t wait. They say it moves quicker as you get older. All I know is, as a starry-eyed grad student, I never pictured it would end up like this. I never pictured myself as a middle-aged loner sleeping with the rats under blankets of corrugated tin. This isn’t the life I went three-hundred-grand in the hole to build.

But where did I go wrong?

One minute, everything was falling into place. The next it was falling to pieces, and as hard as I tried to preserve it, the decay was just too persistent. It spread too fast, and overtook my future.

Everything’s decayed now.

Even my memories are starting to rust.

There’s a lady out here I used to pass by on my way to work, every day. I used to avert my gaze, never locking with her hungry, pothole eyes. Her chessboard teeth. Her gnarled, swollen hands and yellowed, untrimmed nails. They would reach. And I would walk. And she would call. And I would walk. And she would say “God bless you” anyway. And smile.

And I would walk.

Silent. Distracted. Too consumed by dizzying fantasies of the trophy wife who left me. Our future children that we never had. A bigger house, twice the size of the meager three-bedroom apartment we shared. I always wanted bigger, I guess. Now I have nothing. Now I’d settle for what we wanted to leave behind in a heartbeat.

I met that lady again just the other day. Apparently she’d found a shelter uptown a few months back and they’d helped her get her life in order. She got on as a dishwasher at this little diner. She looked a lot cleaner. Not fancy, by far. But she looked...ever-so-slightly like I used to. It was a sobering reversal, watching her hands.

They reached. And I couldn’t walk anymore. And she called, and from my teary eyes I could make out that her hands were no longer empty. They didn’t ask; they offered.

At the end of the day, I never had the heart to take her money.

But I learned her name.

It was Lila. Lila McPherson.

She had a name.

They all did.

Oh, and one more little bit of information I left out. The last doctor visit I could afford didn’t go so good. Not that it mattered. At this point I’d give anything just to get out.

Another year at most I’ve got to rot in this place.

I could look for the shelter that rehabilitated Lila. But why? I’d be getting polished up just to die. Anything from hereon out is an exercise in futility.

So now all I can do is find my reflection in passing. Wait for a bus window or puddle or mirror. Find myself, and try to recognize. Find myself, and try to remember. Still, it seems every newest version of myself I find, he’s so far removed from the man I knew. And there’s no strength left to change him.

All I can do is remind him, reassure him.

He has a name too.

#fiction, #prose, #challenge, #homeless, #depression

“Are you having temperature fluctuations?” said a booming voice.

“Yes,” came a melodic, singsong reply.

“Do you see flashing lights? Hear a constant buzzing?”

“Yes. Yes, exactly! And I have trouble breathing.”

“You have humans.”

A short pause, like a quiet desert at sunrise. “I was afraid of that.”

“Why did you wait so long to come to me?”

“I thought I could deal with it on my own,” said the cosmic singsong voice. “I tried famine, flood, drought, plague….”

“That won’t work,” the booming voice said. “They’ve spread everywhere. Filled your lungs with toxins, contaminated your blood. Without drastic measures, you won’t last 24 hours.”

A racing beat that pounded like an earthquake. “What kind of measures?”

“… Apocalypse.”

A sharp intake of breath that roared like a hurricane. “Not again. It took me years to get over the last one.”

“I’m afraid so. But we’ve had advancements since eradicating dinosaurs. The procedure will only take seven minutes. Recovery time will be a few months.”

“Seven minutes?” said the melodic voice, with a tremble that echoed like thunder. “Will it be painful?

“Yes…very. But you will be rid of humans forever.”

Another pause, like the dead of night. “I’ll do it…”

There was a violent jerk in my stomach and I shot backward through space, past streaks of stars, galaxies and planets, zoomed for a crash-landing on earth and sat bolt upright in bed.

What the hell was that?

Outside my window, a black shadow eclipsed the rising sun, turning the world a cold grey.

And a booming voice echoed in my head.

“Seven...”

The countdown had begun.

“Something‘s missing. Something‘s wrong.

I used to know where I belong,

but now each day feels like a fight.

Nothing in my life feels right.

My mom tap-dances on my nerves.

My father has this way with words

that makes me feel like I’m a child.

My credit bill is running wild...

And then there’s the environment...

Let’s not start on the President!

My friends are all so self-obsessed,

and my chihuahua is possessed!

My Facebook posts are massive fails,

I’m terrified of vapor trails...

Oh, I just want the world to stop!”

“... Ma’am, this is a coffee shop.”

#therapy #coffee #chihuahua #whatisthepointofthese #challengeoftheweek

Stairs balk at talk -

they’ve seen too much -

life’s ups and downs,

babies’ frowns.

Teenagers stealing

up the stairs

into their lairs,

they got their kicks

before parents caught

them in their tricks.

Dirty secrets

ground into stairs.

Teddy bears

falling down.

Scary clowns

waiting there,

stairs don’t care

they don’t talk,

holding up

all that weight,

tempting fate

of sorrows, cares,

sordid stares,

ragged socks

worn by jocks.

Stairs too slick

to talk at all.

But listen with care

you’ll hear the stair

whisper with flair

into cool night air.