I sit, in sadness,
holding hands with an injured friend;
her ribs broken and fractured,
her breathing painful and difficult,
her head aching and dizzy,
her face bruised
is absent, in hiding; yet
he has no sanctuary,
there is no place he won’t be found.
At last, he had his life
in some semblance of order.
Two months sober;
he had an apartment, furniture;
his pride and self-worth had returned.
Then, he spent his rent check on booze —
starting with triple tequila shots
at a biker bar.
had given him a fresh start —
he threw it away.
Street justice will prevail;
sentence has been passed:
a bruise for a bruise,
a broken bone for a broken bone,
and something extra
so it won’t happen again.
Punishment will be exacted
Sample my books for free — proceeds feed the homeless:
Gotta Find a Home: Conversations with Street People