Simply monday

 
It is a “simply monday” once again,
Low on coffee, no sugar and just a touch of cream.

A wait for wednesday cheques as they begrudgingly stumble in.
A bit of change, a bag of bottles for the craving pack of smokes,
A first avenue peek as the morning sins begin,
A talk to my equals on the street with the occasional, dirty joke.

I contemplate the scene, the beat.
Reaching out to drunks and old friends on old, familiar dope
But willing to talk to an aging, helping queer
Who has planted his simple seeds of hope
For twenty some odd, fucking years!

I bumped into the skin and bones of James.
Crystal meth was eating at him one again.
He spoke without the knowledge of his name,
Of psyche wards and paperwork and setting up appointments to see if he’s insane.
The problem is he can’t stay still, long enough to sign “any fucking name!”

It is a “simply monday” once again.
I return to an untidy, tidied house.
I watch the awakenings of my little friend come in.
I clean the kitchen with the quiet and consideration of a mouse.
He delays another taste of the horse that has bitten him,
Covering his head with his sleeping bed while listening to his house,
Fighting and resisting as the predicted day comes in.

A borrowed lighter,
A cough, I know he has begun.
The keys ignite the van. He’s on his morning run!
No joy, his trudge,
No fucking fun!
I pause to hear him speak.
He doesn’t speak to anyone.
“The famous, silent, shouting whisper of the meek.”

A “simply monday” once again
The beginnings of another, endless week.
The seed of hope does live within.
Maybe one day he’ll take a tiny peek
And let his friend come in.

bildo