Homeless

he's a punching bag,
a soul that others
throw cheap shots at.
in a land of great wealth,
he sits by the curb.
waits for new clothes.
has a bend in his shoulders.
smiles when he can.
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 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.
he trudges to 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.
sassy, fresh, full of play,
she lingered upon our breaths.

with each snap of the blanket,
each cry and soft smile,
she leaned into our stories.
asked us to join her world.
cruel, easy, blameless,
she pumped us till we felt
we were riding
a beautiful summer wind.
we became compliant.
then she'd wink as if she had touched our
solemn secrets, our utmost blaze.
and of course, she did.
we were in her court.
at times she'd kiss the blanket.
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?"