Cold on the park
bench, skinny butt hiding
under a flapping
newspaper, shoulda used
the sports section for more cover.
I hear crying, don’t want to
see, mind my business
keep warm, wrap myself like a
sandwich, bench too short for
my bones, hungry too, shoulda kept
fries from last night, man and his
lady left them in the litter
box, too shy to give them to me
saw the fear in their eyes.
Bet they be ‘fraid to touch the skin
of a homeless man but I
sure liked those fries, went down
good with Freddie’s wine.
He died last night under his empty
refrigerator box, told him to git
to Sally Ann for soup and crackers
maybe some prayers, got to be
smart when November winds try
to suck your warm breath. Got to sleep
now, in a while mine the streets, belly
needs a fix. Food. Food.
© Richard L. Provencher
first published January 12, 2007
Southern Ocean Review (42nd issue)
International On-line Magazine of the Arts
New Zealand ISSN 1174-6173