write ****** poetry
throw your ideas at the white wall
allow poor grammar to decorate broken stanzas
and let thoughts expand, urban sprawl
give pain a place to rest its feet
before slaughtering it
with red ink

during my fifteen-minute break at work,
I saw a sleeping bag in the dugout of a baseball field.
it’s almost autumn now.
too cold for whomever this belongs to.

I leave a post-it note
asking what his name is.
my break is over so I go back to work.

the next day, I check for a response
and it’s in the garbage.
I take it out and put it back with the sleeping bag
I can wait.

the day after that I check,
it says “Doug”.
I grab a notebook and introduce myself,
“hi Doug, I’m Tanner. can I get you anything?”

the next day, “anything would help.”
“I’ll bring some back warmers you can use at night
in your sleeping bag.  they’re like regular hand warmers but bigger.”
later that night, after my shift,
i do

this goes on for a while.
I’ll ask him if he needs food,
I’ll bring granola bars.
I’ll ask if he needs light,
I’ll bring a battery-powered lantern.

I ask him what he’ll do when the snow comes
I get a simple response, “I have somwhere to go.”
his spelling isn’t that great.
I ask, “where?”
no response the next day.

I think about him now.
figured I’d ask him how he got to be homeless.
he said he came to town when his father got sick,
said he lost his job for leaving.
eventually, he ran out of money.

I leave a twenty in the notebook.
the next day it reads, “thank you.”
a little bit into winter I still saw his bag
and we still exchanged notes, never once seeing each other.

one day in the middle of winter, I notice his bag is gone.
the notebook isn’t so I hide it under the dugout bench.
winter passes, I still haven’t seen him.

it’s finally spring, still no sign of him.
summer comes along, nothing
little league baseball is starting
the kids found the notebook
and ripped out every single page we ever shared,
shredding each one into tiny illegible pieces
thrown away in the trash can.

I’ll never see Doug again.

Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
Charity's
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
Freckling
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.

Close your eyes
to the possibility
inertia
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.

Sing hymns
all you like.
Piety
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.

So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.

Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.

A defeat
should not sweep us
from our feet
nor stop our heart-beat