Miracle On 10th Street
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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