by Fred Miller

Sore feet lead to curbs where he pauses. 
Proud eyes shift away in a hurry. ‘Tis the 
tear in his trousers, the rip in his shirt, the 
dirt on his toes, the smudge on his cheek?

Thank you, kind sir, God bless you, dear lady. 
Fresh bread for the pockets, new hope for the soul. 
Shuffle up to the alley, biscuits tossed in a bin. Flicks 
of mold, somewhat dry, called blessings for the day.

Tiny sparrows drop to share what is his. An abundance,
he resolves, ‘tis wealth to be shared. A nap on a bench, 
upon his cheek lasers dance. Cannot tarry here, he is 
told, move along, move along, be gone, disappear.

Under clouds in a tither, high brush in a meadow  
hides stashes from eyes apt to thieve and abscond. 
Sharp pebbles pressed down on his spine stir musings 
over sol’s solemn setting and the morrow.

God’s kettles sound alarms, time to scurry, move 
about, look for cover. Awnings help some, store 
entries even better. Cooldowns spark searches 
for shelters left abegging, and windows left ajar.

Drafty floors, shadowed corners, stray dogs, warm 
agendas. No requirements, no rejections, in stillness 
hearts settle in for the night. Promised darkness pray
recede, a new light’s expected, hope is rising, ever rising.

Fred Miller is a California writer. Over fifty of his stories and poems have appeared in publications around the world over the past ten years. Many may be found on his blog: https://pookah1943.wordpress.com

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