Hints of Summer's Plague - A Poem of the Streets

The storm is coming.
That annual boiling out
of the most troubled hard-cases
away from Hell's Block.

Warm weather calls them,
luring them further out by day
tricking them with tolerable
nights to wander now.

Each spring it happens,
and we campers fear the dark plague
marked by crimes the addicts oft do
and we get blamed for.

Winter's deep cold helped
keep the disaster contained tight
around the shelter area
for most that season.

Already the worst
walk the streets by night, hunting prey.
Seeking careless to rob or mooch,
sidling up slyly.

My spot gets visits
each night now, from those shadowy
figures marked by empty backpacks
that speak their hunger.

They steal to get high,
addictions driving reason off
and no one is safe from fingers
that even dip friends.

Some head for high ground,
others disappear from the town
as those questors radiate out from
the place called Hell's Block.

We hear the rumors,
tales of the fools setting up sites
around the shelter to hide in
as they do their drugs.

Warnings from the guys
speak of worse things brewing inside
ready to squirt across the vale
as the low temps rise.

Beware, ye brave souls
who feel the town is your kingdom
for the den of theives sends them out
shutting half their beds.

Each spring, this happens,
each summer indignantly folks
cry their city is invaded
by the homeless bums.

But, they never left.
Only hid out the worst few weeks
that winter tossed at this city
then slither back out.

Seven hundred souls,
that is the count inside most nights
of men alone as I can recall,
in Winter's hard moons.

Now, they roll away
from the hole they have near destroyed
to seek new game to take toll on
and you might be next.

Walk with extra care,
you citizens of good standing
for the criminals slowly creep
out by night to hunt.

No care of target
they seek their next high or low fix,
or profit off unsuspecting
who don't see them there.

The campers take care
moving more furitively now,
knowing the first wolves wander nights,
and the pack follows.

You don't sleep that well
when the predators roam the nights,
knowing you could be the next one
whose hole they sneak in.

Already, we see
the 'tracks' of this pestilence
by torn open packs scattered round
and injured campers.

I walk soft these days,
and 'steel' once more lies on my belt.
I gaze at the forbidden hills
gauging the moment.

Soon, I will head up.
No question this year about that.
Not willing to be exposed now
to their drugs and crimes.

19February2014 - Dyfedd Rex