he has a house,
with books,
drawers of old clothes
and sacred secrets  
cluttering the floors and walls in every room
he walks to the library  
to escape the heat, the cold
and the treacherous terrain of his past,
to spend the day in the company of strangers
who don’t know he is there, mostly
their home is the alley behind the furniture store  
the windless spot under the bridge
or someplace mocking memories
have no place to hide  
he stares at them
hears their breathing half sleep  
smells them  
envies them
and how they can tell their story
without uttering a word  
he is afraid to be one of them  
after years of hiding from their truth