I wouldn’t want you to walk away
with any miscalculations about me.
I am about as wild and crazy as society will allow
without confinement for my own protection.
Whenever I read a self-marketing sign
Vacancies of home and stomach,
Needing to be filled.
I feed the bearers of these signs
of society’s emargination
into raw and naked
erase and start again.
When I notice long-haired grunge,
low-budget gypsys with backpacks and shopping carts,
heading toward me asking to become excused
for asking for things they need,
I head in their direction
to find our best redirection
My husband begrudges every dime
and points out I’m too wild
for pouring mostly alcohol
or worse down throats
without a home.
He claims they’re addicted suicides
waiting for death’s embrace.
But, I say this is too often true
and who am I to judge
those who explore doing their best
of worst available options
given all their dark stuff come before
mixed with sheltered soups
and public kitchens?
Were I or he on that street
rejected by our own history of defeat
I would hope to find those wise enough to stay
with me long enough
to help medicate my way,
to suffer with my emptiness
and ask me please to stay,
tell them all my blues,
sing and dance this suffering away.
Have more cash than I could ever need,
and don’t want to go out that way,
hoarding funds for those who already have too much
while somewhere out there stands
a homeless sign whose bearer
prefers to drink her lunch.
If our legacy composes
both what we do for love
and what we do not do from fear,
If both our action and omissions,
our positives and negatives,
remain behind to feed and haunt our kids,
then why would I not choose
to offer medicines of caring
when neglect is so clearly that of which
this homelessness was made.