DOWN AND OUT

I creep. No place to sleep. A buck or two is all I got. Enough to rent a spot in a flop. I reek. I haven't washed in a week. Maybe two. My body's sore. Can't take no more. What I eat I get from a dumpster down the street. Sometimes good. Sometimes bad. The only food I've had since God knows when. And He don't care if I never eat again.

There's this flop on Avenue C. Eight floors up. A fire trap. Who gives a crap. Steps that creek and sway. Might give way any day. But I go in, start to climb. Take my time. Stop and go. Rest that pain in my chest. Maybe it'll go away. So will I. One pop, I'm through. No big deal. Death heals everything. Brings peace. release. I reminisce. My life was not always like this.

"Eternal Spring," a poem I wrote when I was young, filled with hope and dreams and schemes that never panned out right except at night in my fantasies. How did it start? That first line? Can't remember now. Somehow I will Got to stop and rest. That pain is growing in my chest.

Teacher read my poem to the class. Sounded like a prayer the way she sad it. Didn't give me credit, not at first. "Alright, tell me who wrote it," she asked. Hands went up. Names of famous poets filled the room. Nobody guessed. "This is not a test," teacher said. "Use your head. Who's the best writer in tis class?" All eyes turned to me. They began to applaud.

I closed my eyes and talked to God. Thanked him for the gift he'd given me. Promised I'd not let him down, But I had. And I am sad.

I sleep, dream I'm in my home. Writing that poem. Every word's in my head. But when I awake there's nothing there.