An Attempt to Free This American Soul from Materialism
Down an auxiliary street
in the industrial park
cars and RVs line the curb
By afternoon parking
enforcement brings a
a tow to clear out those
that are being used to sleep in.
Those being used to live a life,
to cook over dying flames.
Next morning the empty
spaces are already being filled
in with different cars, different RVs.
I saw her again, this time standing on the sidewalk, no bags, or cart or anything to own. I recognized her face, though she is only a stranger. Everything else had been washed out, empty of any other kind of existence. I wanted to run up to her, grab her by the hand and to tell her the good news; your face, it’s still recognizable! But she would’ve thought me crazy. So I kept walking, with all four dollars in my wallet.
As you sit there watching the homeless man with carpet padding scarfed around his neck draping down to his feet flip through a magazine he dug out of a trash can, leaning against the trash can, legs crossed, you think: at least there’s always hope. . .
