Old Father folds himself
into a corner of the doorway.
His cardboard bed is new,
has not yet begun to carry
the soak of his sweat
or the brine of his old *****.
It is a beauty - he guards
the box with a ferocity
only seen from those
who own nothing but what
they can carry.

Old Father sits like a monk,
quiet and contemplative.
His gimme-cap is a dirt ground halo.
The blanket of his beard
gives a sense of warmth against
nights too feral and bitter
for a man of sixty-eight years.
His breath sketches pictures
onto the air, and, like fog,
they drift away.

Sleep well Old Father,
on your cardboard bed, on the cement
of that doorway where dreams
are dusty shadows that become
ice-rimed memories.

Saturday.
He fondles his roses
as little Beth walks by,
holding her mommy’s hand.
When mother and daughter
are up the street a bit,
he palpates petals,
lets thorn press into his crotch.

He is that nice old retired preacher
from the middle of the block.
He babysits Beth while her mommy
goes to the gym.

His predilections are private...
secret...
No one knows.
No one knows but little Beth...

and all the little girls before her.

One step closer to spring,
but still bitter winter.
Deserted playgrounds
and parks are seas
of mud and slush.

An umbrella with
no guiding hand
circles across the street,
as oozing hail pounds
out its melody on its ribs.

Wind is invading the dreary quiet
with its voice of doom.
In a vacant lot stands
a crippled truck that lost
its footing on a patch of black ice.

Lucky ones are home,
roasting their limbs by a fireplace
with its yellow bundle of flames.
Soup in mugs - marshmallow
on burnt sticks.

A sudden downpour sends the rope
on the flagpole whipping discordant clangs.

Coats on racks drip puddles on the floor,
galoshes stand side by side in soldierly rows.

Soggy earth is a sponge that ***** shoes
into its void.

Nature weeping in the howling morass
finds no quiet moment.

Small house
isolated, scabrous.
Chickens in the doorway,
half-naked children in the yard.

Never enough.
Gone before it gets there.

Echoes of laughter
mark the morning.

One child after another
darts inside to beg
a mother’s kiss.

Daddy swings his kids
round and round, throwing
them over his shoulder,
where they giggle with glee.

I guess they never read
the government pamphlet
that diagrams their
socio-economic space
at the bottom of society’s
pyramid.

Don’t need no pity here!