I am in the city of dead arisen,
surrounded by saints and sinners;
some safer in cars, cardboard packed
in halcyon piles to suffocate the view.
For others, houses blow in the wind
and when it rains, running leaks
paint the floor with a whisper and
their art for all is a fistful of mold.
The people dress in their dreams
and in three overcoats; weather
blows against tired bones and
minds plagued by poverty woes.
I tip my tin cup to the man
whose drink is filled with change.
He nods in response, happy or
grateful for the reassurance
like a pat on the back and
a little praise. Put 'er there pal,
we've all had those days.
And when the night falls
and the sheltered take to shelter,
I decide to stay out to see
what aggressions will manifest.
A fight here, an argument there.
Shivering catatonia in the corner.
Sentences that don't run together,
abrasive to the listener's reason.
And once the commotion dies
and everyone else does too,
I sigh my witness' sigh and sleep
to start the next day anew.


Hooverville, Poor, Destitute, Homeless, Poem, Poetry, Parker, Jennings, Free Verse,

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