Destined for Better Times

He drops his bike

next to the shopping cart

laden with cans and bottles

destined for better times. I stop

the car and call to him.

We’ve known each other for years.

I call him my friend

although 

I’ve never

invited him home.

Ever.

I get out of the car and call again. His hearing

is bad; he walks as if his legs

are asleep, his back a slant

to the left just like his

beliefs founded

in diving,

collecting,

squatting

and

listening: he cannot read but

he listens. A lifetime of knowing

what is worthy and what is not.

He lives in my neighbourhood―behind

a wall or an underground parking lot

away from the rain which

is coming soon. He dreams

of a home, of buying a van, moving to the mountains and

getting sober, but winter is coming. The mountains

are no place

to dry out.

He lives inside

when opportunity
offers. He makes
a pleasant home. I

sit on his couch amidst
books, clothes,

CDs, hats, bags,
electronics, couches,
chairs,TVs, cigarettes and yes,

dirt. We talk politics. He

encourages my writing. But

he collects. He

collects too much.

He was evicted

last month.

Again.

I like to think I am a good person, left-

leaning, generous and

resourceful, like him. He

is my friend―yet

the lines are drawn. 

I never

invite him home.

Ever.