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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required On many long, drawn out nights, his routine was to shuffle aimlessly along dimly lit city streets. Much of the time, his only companion was a concealed remnant of cheap bottled wine. He scavenged for food and money. He would walk enveloped in deep, weighty shadows and halo laden street lights. Solitary. Lonely. Emptiness that few people feel or know. The raw hollow of an alcoholics tightly drawn stomach. A gnawing pain that craves food but will only be quelled when he gets enough cash for another pint of cheap wine or gin. Where to spend the night? Maybe with some of them under the 10th st. bridge. They may have some money there, or a blanket to share. Might rummage garbage containers at the restaurants on the way. Could walk the parking lot at the grocery store. There's always change lying on the asphalt. Could act like he passed out on a city bench. The police take you to the Detox Center then. He hated that. Have to stay 72 hours. Guts ache, skin crawls. They feed you well, but there is always that craving. Just keep walking. Frail, vaguely awaren of hissurroundings as he treks in shadow andsepia. On 10th, the street lights are so damned bright they hurt his eyes. What's that at the bus stop bench in a brown paper sack? Two loaves of bread, two wrappers of bologna, and a luxurious bottle of Gallo wine tucked in the sack. My God. Providence at a city bus stop. Someone boarded the bus and left their supper. Probably headed for the homeless shelter overnight. White bread and meat for one hunger. Cheap wine for the other. There might even be some food to share. Miracle on 10th St.
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