The Homeless Poem by Jim Boone

Life in the ‘without' stage; unattended soul departures
Into grace; Mr/Ms Bones in an unmarked pauper's grave.
Nobody that anybody else knows, knows the back story
And nobody appears to know their names. No ‘next of
Kin'to speak of, all connected by a ‘mentally ill'claim.

Years spent on the streets is unfathomable to anyone
Who has not walked in those worn shoes, to anyone
But one who has come so very close to the poverty line
And shuddered as they began to observe a tapestry of
The ‘living dead' soaked with booze, stoned on crack,
Wearing and carrying all of their ‘worldly possessions',
Sleeping in shelters or the cold, getting kicked around
By cops and punks. It makes them ‘crazier', turns them
Into beggars with a bone to pick with ‘the man'.

Entitled to ‘due process' or not, there is no ‘notice'
Of incoming manipulation or a lack of fear or disgust
For their being on the streets. Crazy, but not stupid,
Soul tried and tested by blessed indifference, politicians
Balance budgets on the backs of the poor. A small
Percentage of persons with physical/mental disabilities
Ever receive disability benefits and if there is a roof over
Their heads, the major part of their income goes to hold
On to the housing they have. One missed paycheck or
Anything unexpected that costs them and that housing
Is gone and they join the ranks of those without options.
Homeless people are in tune with the streets: The concrete,
The curbs, the gutters, the litter. They hang close to bus
Stops and store-fronts; move slowly over familiar terrain
Day after day, week after week, month after month, year
After year; stopping to talk to each other only. They sit
In the open, hidden under hats and caps, behind layers
Of dirty old clothing and they observe everything that
Goes on around them, absorbing the odors of exhaust
Fumes from buses, trucks and cars, an outpouring of
Odors from restaurants.
The homeless are always in their zone, become familiar
To the neighborhood and then one day they are gone -
Noted and then forgotten, just like the rest of us who
Are not up to our ears in family and community. Say
"Brother can you spare a dime."


2012 Jim Boone, US Poet Laureate Nominee