Homeless

he's big, husky,
drapes himself with a blanket.
has a tent. sits by it
asking for a few dollars.
he's hell bent on surviving.
smile and he gives you a thumbs up.
but now he must run for cover.
stay dry.
I met him at Starbucks.
says he cut his hand
picking through garbage.
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 blue eyes, Sunday dress.
holds an old faded photo.
says she's as kind as a kitten.
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.
get 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 he'll catch sleep
while the world moves
further away from him.

The Courtyard Dancer And Her Blanket



her exceptional beauty,
her voice, the way her whole body shook,
lit her lovely face. her sharp leaps
and dark tropical eyes
aimed straight for us.
she entreated us with stares,
song, spicy turns,
sensuous dips and artful kicks.
she found our yearnings.
sassy, fresh, full of play,
she took our breaths away
when she spun
her strong arms and colorful skirt.
we were seasoned just right.
she handled us with ease.
shook us up like a tangy brew,
then stirred us like a hot sauce.
off we went halfway to heaven.

she smiled, danced, and whistled,
as she leaned into our stories.
she was a beautiful summer sound.
with each snap of the blanket,
with each kick, her fast ballet
could jingle our insides,
bring us hands and feet into the moment.
teach us something we didn't know.
she'd find our underworld.
then wink as if she touched our
solemn secrets, our utmost blaze.
and of course, she did.
we were in her court.
at times she'd kiss the blanket.
then bow.
she was on her victory ship.

she drew her splash
from the orange pinches,
fiery reds and deep greens
weaved into the rich knit stitching.
"my angelic threads," she says.
"made from the tears of the good earth." 

we were left galvanized.
later, when folding
the corners she looked up
and whispered:
“grandma, did you see?
we did it. didn't we?"