Meeting you for lunch

I heard a junkie in the street
Yelling about how ryan never hit her
And how he never treated her like this
And I was packing my bag for school
And I stepped out my front door
Walked past the junkies sitting
On the fence, smoking, and I looked at her tortured face
For a second, only one, and I carried on
Up the hill marching towards my institution
Went to class, had a boring time
Met you for lunch
Listened to your talk of this and that
Things you consider just plain bad
But is it really all that bad? 
Have you ever sat on a fence, smoking, yelling about a guy named ryan?

  

Oh, Paul

dark street

Late at night I wonder if you made it Home from your long walk

On streets littered with trash, and mud, and puddles of rain that cars drive through and splash onto you, in shoes with egg shaped holes and worn out soles, they transport you- your body, a stick figure frame swimming in ripped jeans and a patched hoody that—still has a few, small holes—from point A to point B every night. The great mystery. I lay in bed and wonder. I imagine mean dogs with sharp teeth and nasty barks chasing you. I imagine rough people with knives and guns robbing you. I imagine you lost in dark streets with no streetlights or signs to guide you.

I imagine sleek cars whizzing by, and you, unheeded, like a stray dog, wander in the night.

Shoulders

Old man who rises in the morning
And pours his coffee

Old man who showed me birds sitting in tall trees, and ten-foot tall basketball hoops, and planes soaring in the sky
From his shoulders

I soared

Now I rise in the morning
And pour myself a cup of coffee

And it’s the bitter taste of never getting my sugar and cream just right
That keeps me running, jumping, trying to
Soar again