Into the shadows until dawn comes - A poem of the streets

Some-days it really sucks being me,
unable to partake of the stuff
other use to escape our reality
thanks to my nasty allergic reactions.
Too proud to crawl into bottles
the other guys take swigs from,
leaves this good ol' boy wondering
What the Hell can I do?
Other than sit by the water fountain
in the small designated smoking area
filling up my tobacco pipe occasionally
tossing out smoke rings to watch
drift off from under my hat
sailing away as I'm unable to.

So I sit here waiting patiently
for the night's soft velvet colors
camera dead weight in my pack,
stuck on F-stop plus five thousand
judging by the whiteout pictures taken
the last few sunsets and rises.
Still just rising up, waxing moon
the laughing man nearly all there
as the mad ones howl loud
anticipating their night to rule all:
streets, alleys and lonely dark parks
harassing me about being out here
the only sober guy this weekend
when they enjoy their wild parties.

Folks stroll past on the pathways
giving me dirty looks down noses
forgetting who their Carpenter walked with.
I'd rather be in the Foothills,
sitting in a grove real quiet
waiting for God's pastel sky paintings
and the racing of Summer's meteor showers
across the vault so dark above,
even as the crickets serenade me.
Six bucks lie in my pocket,
a few swigs of Coke left,
the a pop bottle of water
filled before the library shut down
and I had to leave it.


The shadows cast by the buildings lengthen,
as the sun seeks other places
to give her warmth down to.
Chill breezes cross the park's grass,
making my layers a needed thing
under their gentlest of feather massages.
Another night out on the streets,
just seeking a quiet, safe place
to layout my bedroll at,
set aside this load I'll lift
when I set out to sleep.
Dark hours spent hidden from sight
so I won't offend some folks
for being denied benefits and homeless.

Falling water soothes my soul's aches,
flowers give my eyes balm's touch.
Still, deep inside my thick skull
barbs tossed today my way sting.
Rejection from jobs, stories won't flow,
not even those simple toss-away's
I use to clear internal buffers.
Insults, spoken and silent, still burn,
salt to wounds opened by acts
of arrogance, greed and other sins,
I once was guilty of also.
Motorcycles stuttering call, headed up state,
cruising for their Friday night rides
say its time to head on...
...back into shadows until dawn comes.

21June2013 - Dyfedd Rex.