The men here walk
With their lives on their backs.
Some lope up and down the road for hours, days even.
Cardboard signs strewn about reading, “PORTLAND,” “SOUTH,”
“ANYTHING HELPS, GOD BLESS.”
Some sleep in the parks whacked
On a drug-induced trip
Or
Whacked from the long trip of life.
You can tell they are tired,
Can’t you?
Girls will sometimes cross the street
In tears.
They really don’t care if you see them that way.
But they don’t seem to care about much.
Crying babies pushed in strollers
Down the avenue for miles
While their mothers talk on cellphones
About something that they probably shouldn’t.
The grass in the park is green and wet from the rain,
Still a homeless man lies there.
Asleep for just a little bit longer.
And as a train rumbles into town, you realize
That soon there will be more
Of them.
This town was meant for the strange.
What’s more, it all makes you finally realize that
All along, you have been the strangest of all.
The whistle in the distance
Says,
“Welcome home.”