Homeless On Mulberry Street

As I walked down Mulberry Street, my pack and the shoes on my feet. I see a nickel, penny a dime an empty bottle of wine. Fletcher the old drunk, smelling a bit of a skunk still I smile and wave. Punks have placed Graffiti on a wall, claiming ownership of this urban sprawl. I stop for a bit and have a quaint sit on the remnants of a flower box. I light my last smoke, watch some odd folk, they walk to the beat of their drum. Exhaling the sweet mist of nicotine addiction, happy this is my only vice. A dandelion grows through a crack screaming for me to take poetic note. A Mercedes parked in front of the attorneys office, ill gotten gains. Trash blown into the inner recess of the arched doorway in which I sit. A drug store receipt a note perhaps a declaration of love or don't forget the milk. The cast iron manhole cover states proudly, Made in Chicago. Ahead lies the Mulberry Street Mission a line already forms. Where dinner and biblical mumbo jumbo are being served. The old woman greets everyone with a smile and tells them Jesus loves you. I'll wait until she goes inside I don't want to argue. The wind blows and sunshine falls on my face. I notice out of the corner of my eye a normal folk (Non-Homeless). Taking their own cigarette break enjoying the same sweet addiction as myself. Our eyes meet in acknowledgement of we are the same, for the moment. The Mulberry Street bus rambles by spewing noxious fumes. The city's wind artwork slowly turns hoping someone will take notice. My last long draw on my cigarette, I grab my pack and pull myself up. then One foot Two foot I resume my journey to the Mulberry Street Mission. (In Memory of Fletcher Campbell 1940-2015)