Thank God It’s Not Me

by Elvira

He                                sits                               alone.
Baseball cap                filthy                            with months
of walking                                                       the State
Looking,
Looking,
Still      looking                        for
another                                                           meal
chair
place to sleep
knowing that in the end
he’ll                                                     be hounded by hunger
cops
do-gooders
only                             wanting                       to be of
value                           to                                 himself and others.

The Backpack              is                                  heavy,
the clothes:                                         yesterday’s employment:
Button-down jacket,                            now Holy
baptized by a life
of regrets
joys
hard work                                                        until
the Snow                     kicks                            in –
the alcohol                  saturates the liver
with                                         the Fruit of the Gods
turned to Poison.
No Banquet;                                                    only Rescue Mission
with St Joan                                         of the Stockyard
rattling                                    her tambourine
of the Faceless Mister                                                that
made   Planet Earth

Humanity                    looks                            Away —
never   recalling                      his shoe
could be                      It’s.
It                                  is                      Easier to
weep               for Strangers,
than                             comprehend    your own.

And, so                        the Band                      continues: horns
squeeze boxes
open hands,

                                                            Trading a sermon for
a Sandwich, without                                        mayo.
He’ll take it,
nodding his head,
“Yes, sir”                                             Thinking; “Yes, Mastah”

                                    So,                               he
eats his meal
knowing not where
his weary body                                    rests tonight.
It                                                          matters, Not —
the Rent                      will always be             the SAME:
a Broken Soul
for                   Lumpy Cereal.

January 23, 2014

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