Under puddle grey skies they emerge,
in large numbers
filing out through the heavy metal door
lighting up in unison --
An after dinner toke on a full stomach.
The best tasting cigarette of the day
besides the first one with morning coffee.
But sometimes there's no sweet aromatic coffee.
It's made from grains of yesterday
Bitter tar-like substance from the bottom of an urn.
Sometimes morning begins
starring at the underbelly of a bridge
in backbreaking pain,
throbbingly disjointed
where no coffee is brewing
where the only smoke is a discarded butt.
Sometimes morning begins in
a sock stinking room shared by 10 damp strangers
Shivering under an unknown blanket,
worn and used by others
prickly and unwelcoming transience.
Coffee there is weakly tepid
Served in a stained unfamiliar mug.
Given to charity
"Worlds Best Dad......"
At first glance, I see
Weather worn faces seemingly the same
Dazed, angry, bone weary aged.
Empty discards
in oversized pants from Sally Ann
in threadbare shirts, wrinkled from sleep
tattered, torn faded colour
Sadness prevails
Surrendered souls
Who have seen the bottom of a bottle of cheap whiskey
many times
Who have felt the biting winter winds
many times
and know it feels the same as the hard slap from the back of a hand.
They've felt them both and know they are the same.
Strangers lost in a fog of mental illness, shit luck,
abuse and a lifelong hangover.
Numbed on the bare boned skinned knee open wound existance.
But tonight,
as they emerge and converge for an after dinner smoke
Gathering in an puddle filled alley
hidden by a brick building,
where the shelter and the kitchen
make it a meaningful destination,
as they emerge and converge for an after dinner smoke
Gathering in an puddle filled alley
hidden by a brick building,
where the shelter and the kitchen
make it a meaningful destination,
I look again and see some familiar faces.
People who have visited me in my office.
Human beings I have seen around town.
The man with the marionette monkey
who makes it dance for money every Saturday at the market.
The woman who collects bottles and cans from the dumpster behind my office building
The mom and her two kids whom I've shared a coffee chat with in her home.
The guy who sleeps on the bench in the park downtown
A few whose names I don't know, but have seen in the lobby.
Many I don't recognize.
Many are lost in a schizophrenic fog.
Some gather together to talk,
while others stay within themselves
lost in the periphery of the marginalized.
Marginalized by the marginalized.
Our society breathes hierarchy like dragon's breath
One small statured man walks gingerly and awkward
trying to pretend he isn't completely drunk
Another with a shaved head whose eyes dart in paranoia paces.
And another, and another............same look.......same space....
Sober --stark, real, cold, wet reality. Who wants sober?
In the middle of the group?
A little boy
about 4 years old
with a red ballcap
and red crocs on his feet
glides by on his scooter.
Whoosh............his colourful presence
enraptures me.
Like a taste of watermelon on a hot day.
In and out splashing through the grey sky puddles
twisting and turning his scooter
past the sad adult faces too hurt to pay attention
Oblivious to his joy
He oblivious (maybe) to their pain.
The scooter skids and the little boy yelps.
All eyes turn to him.
His mother, incapacitated by a full leg cast lurches forward
But a friendly face intervenes.
He tends to the little boy,
then playfully takes the scooter
and turns the scene into a circus romp.
He's a smiling clown.
The little boy laughs from his belly
The sad adults, thirsty for relief
begin to cheer on the clown.
Smiles all around.
A moment of light tasting levity
in the midst of despair.
And it makes me wonder if Jesus is close by taking it all in.
I think He is.
9 comments:
I'm sure he is...
reading this I was transported back to me time in London...sadly this scene could be played out in any city ... it brings pangs of wanting to be back there...
obviously meant my, not me, time...!
This is a very good poem, and yes, it could play out in any city, anywhere.
Jesus is always close by, its good that you sensed His desire to be near to His people, watching and taking care of the flock.
Hi Katie.....I was thinking the same. It is a scene all too familiar in our cities and yet my feeling is that it's a scene invisible to many.
Judy...thank you. The poem honestly wrote itself as the slice of life unfolded in from of eyes (as I sat in my van waiting to pick up my husband who was volunteering at the soup kitchen.) I had this feeling of needing to capture the slice. I was the only one there observing....though some were observing me too.
David...I sensed His presence too. He provided a grace note to an otherwise ordinary everyday trip to the soup kitchen. Or at least that's how I saw it.....because I felt something switch in me and in the others. thank you for dropping by.
I have seen people like these in every city I have ever visited. Most people don't even notice them. You have captured the scene so well that I can see it clearly in my mind. Your writing conveys great insight and observation.
I'm glad you enjoyed your visit to my blog. I must come and visit here more often :)
Hello, Michele sent me and I'm glad I had the chance. This is a very well written piece that creates such an clear image.
Thank you for the deep thought. I'll be back to your blog in the future.
Hello Michele sent me. Nice poem. I really like how you used the pictures with the poem. Beautiful.
Hello! Michele sent me!! Have a nice weekend!!!
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