HOMELESS AND SPEAKING

Feeling a bit balmy
a night within him
at the Salvation Army
or Pine Street Inn
traveling to Boston Common
through dark sleepless hours
with practically empty bins
sitting with his knitting
collapses on Park Street bench
the air emphatically
naked as the Elm tree
he takes his leaves and naps
in melancholy flesh
over the helm of seasons
up in Maine
missing the fishing season
with secondary sorrow
for he has literary plans
set for an arbitrary tomorrow
wishing he
quietly  plain speaking
was back interviewing
with that Globe reporter
who gave him a twenty
or was it a Lincoln
now feeling exhausted
busted and invisible
knowing you were
once smart enough
in this rough and ready
trade to pull your own weight
even on the old freight cars
at Penn station
you use to read
the New Yorker
and the Nation under the stars
now with indolent suffering
and the face of vigilant want
you cannot forget
that Montreal cheese croissant
or the Ben and Jerry's treat
up in Stowe Vermont
as Joey feels a weakness
on his knee caps
under snow-drunk skies
to some he is only
a  reluctant soul
a vagrant taking his toll
as in a disguised shadow
with a few fallen words
to the wise
for out of pollen
there will always be a flower
on this repentant dawn
for in the trash can
near the swan boats
and grassy dunes
at an early bird hour
Joey finds his fortune
in a lottery
as his life resumes.