Trouble Makers on the Porch

First, before anyone reads this, the last line is not me being depressed, it a common sentiment among those who are homeless, and I added it only after a lot of thought. Some of the guys live day by day, thnakful for the days they have, making no plans ahead of the next binge, the next high, the beer at the end of the day. I have met those guys who accept that some morning they will not wake up, and do so cheerfully. To some it will end the pain, for others its a price for some perceived freedom they keep by living on the streets, not staying in the shelters, but camping in doorways, under docks, and other places.
Many of them are good guys, perhaps worthy of being hobo's back in the day. Some are not. But they are among you, moving about. And not all of them are theives and skidrow bums they seem. Some just gave up on things. But they deserve some remembrance and this is all I can do, for now.


Troublemakers on the Porch

We gather for a meal
given to us as charity
and stay to be socialble
and learn what we can
of what places there are
holding out a generous hand
and what we really need
besides a dang good job
and a place to live
that is not a barracks.

Others who gather up later
laugh as they approach us
calling from the stairs below
"Trouble Makers on the Porch!"
making the volunteers look around
worried it was a threat
until the hear us laugh
tossing back a similar banter
"Riff Raff Climbing the Stairs!"


We sip on hot chocalates
or if lucky hot soup
wondering if this is it
the last week out here
living on the cold streets
or that shelter off west
which while at least warm
smells of feet and gutrot
turning our stomachs all night.

We talk of our hopes
wishing on the first star
in silence covered by joviality
to hide our secret fears
that this is our lot
now and down the road
to walk around a town
wandering the streets like others
either drunk or stoned out.

But we manage staying clean
another diurnal cycle of light
without succumbing to the darkness
keeping our sense of humor
strange as it may seem
to those not of us
who camped not for fun
but as they lacked homes
and knowing the next meal

We live by Pandora's Gift
that she left locked up
until someone else freed it
to spring up eternally more
feeding our joking each day
as we laugh off pains
and look only to tomorrow
praying it will be better
Though some seek something else.

We part with more calls
smiles upon our frozen faces
but warmth inside our souls
knowing there are some others
who know where we are,
where we have walked recently
and the paths dividing ahead
back to the working world
or staying down and out...
   ...wondering when we will die.

(12/4/2011 - Dyfedd Rex)