the wind blew through here tonight
like a hooker chasing a john
who hadn't paid,
and more than once,
I wished that it would have
taken me, up over the sailboat masts,
up past the church steeple,
high above the town,
filled with sleeping people;
only six days remain
until I commemorate,
but not celebrate,
the first anniversary
of achieving the title of
"no fixed address";
there's nothing like
homelessness
to teach you what matters,
to show you "what else";
hopes for a place to live,
once sparkled, glistened,
but now seem to be lost,
seem out of reach,
me to blame,
no one to forgive.
October 20, 2011.
Copyright © 2011, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.
