Lost
by Sue Ellen Pector
Returning soldier, greeted
by bored indifference,
arm-crossed disdain,
nary a welcome for you.
Your strongest part, a metal leg,
standing in for the flesh and bone
you lost in a war you never understood.
Your dreams stolen.
Inspired by “GI Homecoming,” a painting by Sandow Birk in Street Spirit.
SLICK SATIN
by Jack Hirschman
The satin of BP’s slick
has killed millions of fish
and still it’s taxed shit-all,
and 11 exploded corpses
are bloodcrusted on its hands.
And don’t give me please
the scolding of the President.
He needs that fucking oil
for his drones and copters
to keep killing innocents abroad.
Let’s hear it for… statistics:
How many animals are murdered
in the poor and battered Gulf?
How many soldiers suicided
and overdosing in Afghanistan,
Iraqistan, Newyorkistan, Iranistan,
Sanfranciscistan. How many are
raising their knives to have done
with their humiliated lives
worth less than barrels of oil.
Or putting gun-barrels to brains
instead of making the BP rats
meet the most gigantic cats in
human history, licking our chops,
dying for ratatouille between our teeth.
Harder Than Might
by Sue Ellen Pector
I wish I could have sorted through
music that touched you,
clothing you touched,
photos you loved,
books that gave you joy and solace.
I wish harder than might can
that death had forgotten where you lived.
The Justice of Star Shine
by Sue Ellen Pector
All the world’s lost.
Magic begets pain, sharpens focus.
Hope’s nothing but right,
like the justice of star shine
on river breezing midnights.
Pushing Your World
by Sue Ellen Pector
Glowing with life,
a graceful mansion
bedecked with wintry cheer
and clusters of people.
The glitzy Christmas tree
surrounded by sturdy elms.
Homeless, you walk by,
pushing your world
in a shopping cart,
your gaze downward.
Layers of clothing protect you from
lonesome, hopeless loss.
Inspired by “Holiday Home Luke: 16:25,” a painting by Jos Sances in Street Spirit
Lost in Limbo
by Claire J. Baker
She tries to act nimble in Limbo
while falling through the Safety Net.
And now where will she go?!
Trying to act nimble in Limbo,
a player in the Show
of Life, she says she’ll “get it” yet.
She tries to act nimble in Limbo
but agencies cut the Safety Net.
The Leaving
by Claire J. Baker
Too many leave us silently —
what happened to Goodbye?
On streets, in rest homes we see
how people leave so silently,
will lock their door & keep the key,
weave a whisper or sigh…
Must people leave us silently —
what happened to Goodbye?
After Life on the Streets
by Claire J. Baker
How often, after we have passed,
our families make us angels, saints.
“Out at sea” we tried to cast
our anchors. After we have passed,
had roughly sailed in tempest blast,
our families lavish pretty paints
on shadows. After we have passed
they make us risen angels, saints.
Irony, in Capital Letters
by Claire J. Baker
The Tenderloin’s SRO
vs.
A Broadway play’s SRO.
Allow a sardonic depiction:
The Tenderloin offers
single dingy rooms
depressing, cramped
for a luckless occupant —
rented by day, week, month.
On NY’s Broadway, impressive
plays/musicals all sold out.
If one gets in, one stands
through the pricey performance.
But you can brag you attended!
Two vastly different SROs
in duplicate
Capital Letters.
Mark, the Streetwoman & Me
by Buford Buntin
He’s nice to her, buys her
MacDonald’s coffee as
he gets some chicken tenders
& french fries. I’m not hungry,
having eaten at Glide,
so I get nothing.
I’ve known him for several
years in a poetry group.
In this setting, he’s cocky
& sophisticated in a somehow
soft yet street-like way.
The woman goes to the bathroom
with her dog & stays a long time.
I look that way down prefab
hard plastic chair way several times
as other women open the bathroom
door but don’t go in. He & I agree
that the woman in the bathroom
is probably shooting up heroin.
She finally comes out
drinks a sip of coffee,
then leaves.
She’s probably in her
mid-thirties or so
but is missing teeth
on one side of her mouth
just to the left
of her front teeth.
The Walk to the Shelter
by George Wynn
The laid off
street cleaner
fought the army
in El Salvador
now he fights
for a shelter bed.
Between meals
at St. Anthony’s
and Glide he eats
big 99 cent tacos.
“It’s dangerous
in the shelter,” I say.
“I’ve known danger
all my life,” he says.
“I’ll be dead soon
if I stop taking my
medicine el doctor says.
Before I buried
mi madre she said
God would take care of me.
I’m still waiting
but I pray for everyone.”
“I will pray for
you tonight,” I say.
“Bueno my friend.
It’s seven I have to
get a bed. Buenas
noches amigo.
I hope to see you
again in the
taqueria.”
The Sadness of the Unhoused
by George Wynn
If you ever take a bus ride
in an upscale neighborhood
and hear the righteous
declaim negative images
of those much less fortunate
simply ask them before you depart:
“How many good days are there
in a month for the unhoused?”
“How many warm nights are there
in a month for the unhoused?”
Homeless in 2010
by George Wynn
Look where they lived
art deco benches were
the core of their
nocturnal sleep
Many a homeless veteran
who fought for the
American way
brought their ardours of
survival and their nightmare
narrative of war
to this gray 1939 fortress
which will be
demolished
Down the street
at the Interim
Transbay Terminal not
a single restroom built
Why? to keep homeless
people away
to remind the
vulnerable emotionally
and physically wounded
of the bureaucratic way. Homeless in 2010
by George Wynn
Look where they lived
art deco benches were
the core of their
nocturnal sleep
Many a homeless veteran
who fought for the
American way
brought their ardours of
survival and their nightmare
narrative of war
to this gray 1939 fortress
which will be
demolished
Down the street
at the Interim
Transbay Terminal not
a single restroom built
Why? to keep homeless
people away
to remind the
vulnerable emotionally
and physically wounded
of the bureaucratic way.