by Byron D. Howell

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A homeless man walks down a scornful street.
By day, from door to door he's shooed away.
He finds some peace where all the pigeons meet.
As peaceful as the squirrels there are gray.
He begs for change. Perhaps, to buy a nip?
Perhaps to drown the laughs and scoffs he bears?
Upon his shoulder. Sure, you'll find a chip!
A hole, in fact. He's worn that shirt for years!
This homeless man, by three, heads to a place
where he won't end up sleeping on the ground.
He'll get there good and buzzed, this sad disgrace
who drinks to cope, to feel safe and sound.
Put eighty men like him beneath one roof -
then strike one match and watch them all, go POOF!

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