Homeless

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this morning he cut his hand
poking through garbage.
but his hand can reach.
say hi,
how are you?
he's one of the unaccountable souls
who awakes each day in hard pain.
sits by Starbucks
catching morning Java.
wears a hat with a hole in it.
swears he has a girlfriend
though she's mad at him today.

speaks of his daughter,
her soft blue eyes, Sunday dress.
holds an old faded photo.
loves her just for herself.
when he dreams, he graces
the touch of her hair.
he hasn't grown tired of love
but knows he'll never find it.

for him, life is oblique,
skewed in the city's underbelly,
the scaly streets,
the nerves of night,
but give him a coin and he thanks you.

at times old ghosts rise.
he lifts his fists.
gets lost in his own hurricane.
then melts into moans.
young tongues mock. adults judge.
he's lost his rightful human way.

what is the antidote? 
some say a faltering brain cannot be repaired.
the sun dims. night returns silence, 
quiet hours for this old soldier.
at his outpost, boots on,
he'll catch sleep
while the world moves
further away from him.

Lucky

he lurched from the bushes.
stared. declared his presence.
I was staunch, resolute.
no I said.
but he demanded.
he put his chin on my knee.
gave me the all of his two bold eyes.
his red collar said Lucky.
he sat right beside me.
shameless I said.
I jostled.  turned away.
pretended not to notice.
I did my best but his zestful
look had mastery.
humans never greet me
with such affection.
I gave him a half sandwich.
this little fox ate to his pleasure.

I ambled to the park.
sat by a picnic table.
he trotted behind me like my BFF.
no, I said. no more.
go chase a bird.
he refused.
he put his chin back on my knee
and looked straight up.
I broke. 

later I saw him nudge another.
got himself more goodies.
he's not lucky,
I said.
he’s smart.