deepundergroundpoetry.com
Cardboard and Rags
Henry sat next to the rusty old trolley from Walmart.
He had parked it with the precision of a car in a tight garage
alongside his ramshackle home under the freeway.
It sat piled high with out-of-date tins of tuna fish,
so when he needed one he could just extend a sweaty hand
to grab breakfast, dinner, or tea
always with the minimum of effort.
No-one had told him,
today was Christmas day
and the only difference that meant
was a little less noise from the freeway overhead,
although the constant buzz in his ears always stayed the same.
It was ten years since he had celebrated
anything or anyone.
Ten years since the bottle in a brown paper bag
had not been the only present
he could struggle to steal or buy for himself.
He gripped it tightly and lovingly
his ultimate insurance against life
and to him it tasted better
than any hot turkey dinner ever could.
It was,
and as I write it still remains
Henry's Christmas cheer
every day of the year.
He had parked it with the precision of a car in a tight garage
alongside his ramshackle home under the freeway.
It sat piled high with out-of-date tins of tuna fish,
so when he needed one he could just extend a sweaty hand
to grab breakfast, dinner, or tea
always with the minimum of effort.
No-one had told him,
today was Christmas day
and the only difference that meant
was a little less noise from the freeway overhead,
although the constant buzz in his ears always stayed the same.
It was ten years since he had celebrated
anything or anyone.
Ten years since the bottle in a brown paper bag
had not been the only present
he could struggle to steal or buy for himself.
He gripped it tightly and lovingly
his ultimate insurance against life
and to him it tasted better
than any hot turkey dinner ever could.
It was,
and as I write it still remains
Henry's Christmas cheer
every day of the year.
Published 17th Dec 2009
| Edited 16th Jul 2012
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 3
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Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
17th Dec 2009 8:26am
Anonymous
17th Dec 2009 8:51am
u you so beautifully drawn here.Moving stuff.
17th Dec 2009 12:01pm
Do you know I never thought about how many alchoholic tramps there actually are. I must research that - thank you Priya.
17th Dec 2009 12:04pm
Anonymous
17th Dec 2009 5:54pm
That line is quietly yet brutally observant. Reminds me of the stories my mother tells me about the alcholics and homeless people she sometimes drinks wine with down the beach.
17th Dec 2009 7:24pm
Thanks Jack - this is loosely based on a character who once lived under the M4 - drawing colour from my own encounter with the lucked out cardboard community on the railroad tracks behind the strip at Las Vegas.
21st Dec 2009 6:49pm
this created a vivid picture in my mind and i felt the emotion and i felt henry's pain as my own. great job! keep it up
21st Dec 2009 9:18pm
Thanks for your kind feedback zionhealmen - I am glad you enjoyed my Henry.
Anonymous
8th Jun 2011 3:47am
good point in finding the happiness in the simple things especially when they are frowned upon by most
