VAGRANT
I was arrested for being 25 yards away from the Appalachian Trail
for being drunk and out of good company
for sleeping under a highway bridge
when I was tired enough not to hear the thunder of a thousand tires.
I was cold when the rains came;
I sweated out a thousand Alabama highways;
I worked day in and day out and I was gone the next morning.
I picked through your trash can;
I picked up what you threw out the car window;
I picked up on the fact that I wasn't wanted around here;
I picked up and moved on.
In the shopping malls, the coffee shops
anyplace they're too busy to call the cops.
I'm a dirty face staring at your from the street corner
over a sign that says VIETNAM VET
PLEASE HELP
(I'm 35 years old)
I'm a scarred visage in the shelter
trying to get right with Jesus
maybe because I've been told I ought to
maybe because I don't know what else to do
I'm the walking coatrack you steer your children away from
at Freedom Park
the reason you lock your car doors driving down Independence Boulevard
I smell of beer or fortified wine
(when I'm lucky)
I left the fire scar you stumbled across in the vacant lot
and the beans can and the twinkie wrapper
but not the soda cup, lid, or straw.
I'm slinking around the corner at a breath before sunrise
while you're walking your dog.
I've been called homeless, disenfranchised, schizophrenic,
unfortunate, an innocent abroad, a stoner, a loser, a bum
I've mostly been called what the cops call me when they pick me up
for a cushy night in the clink
before they let me out into the cold bright morning
because I really don't have anything for them
and they really don't know what else to do with me
mainly they just didn't want me where I was
where ever that was.
Maybe I want the freedom from rough walls; maybe I crave the wide open spaces
maybe I just don't know any better.
I've been vagrant on every street in America
and the only thing I know for sure
is that I'll be there again
tomorrow.