Camp

The smell of wood smoke drifts through The air with no presence of mind to settle anywhere Except on the clothes of old men who struggle to Open tin cans with the anticipation of a child with An unopened gift. Cardboard schemes and wooden things create Shelter for the menagerie of characters who dwell within Their sanctuaries of loneliness and pipe dreams...some Have made little windows to view a world that is slightly Askew to their likening. Around a fire grumblers grumble, jokers joke about Their predicaments of life and sing songs of Camelot Where no knights slay dragons, no same ls in distress To be rescued by this tortilla flat would be heroes... A sense of normalcy exists here. We count our blessings like we count our coins. We count on our friends and we count on no one To bring a shovel and dig us out of the sludge Of life that we live beside this river in makeshift Castles of trash. Sundown and you smell pots of what's not cooking And the nervous chatter of women holding Steinbeck Children whose eyes long for wishes and dreams That only reach out as far as they can see...I weep For their innocence. Darkness comes and the drunks are drunker...me, Myself and I chase the dragon once more to escape This reality of camp life whose existence is a foreboding For society to take heed...don't they know they are one Paycheck away from being me? The smell of sleep surrounds the camp, some Dreaming, some not, but all aware of tomorrow and Thee morning's smokey haze of disillusionment and Paranoia of leaving this secret seclusion...actors Without a stage.