A Homeless Man

Good Morning! 
Today’s morning hello without skip.
A homeless man who
sang a song for me yesterday,
recited a gem of a poem to me last week,
preached the wisdom of life to me last month.
He will do them again tomorrow, next week, next month.
 
Why does he nest in my porch?
Why do I call him a homeless man?
Why do I willingly despise me who feel pity for him?
 
Tomorrow morning, would I try to greet him first,
who spent the night in my door step?
to prove that he is a hologram
to despise him without guilt, with comfort.
 
This bed I am sleeping on is a paper box?
This blanket I am covering myself with is a newspaper?
This house I am living in is a subway station?
This poem I am writing now is a deep sigh?
 
I hope not.

A Certain Delusion

Peeping into her not-so-pretty face,
he follows the movement of her slender fingers.
She is The Queen.
He is a homeless man.
Keeling before her majestic posture,
he listens to her not-so-sexy alto voice.
She is holding his life in her palm, but
he is trying to hold her mind in his heart.

Abuse your power and have me.
I have a street intelligence not found in the castle.
I will write you a beautiful poem.
I can entertain your ears with exotic stories.
I might confess love to you out of sheer delusion.

I will feel the palace through your breath as
Queen’s hidden lover.
Give me your tiny smile
when you pass by me.

Watching her retreating figure,
he accepts her invitation even though
he couldn’t find her secret note….

A Bottomless Pit

A homeless man is sleeping happily
On his tiny space
As if he thinks he hit the bottom finally
In this vast universe.

Would he know tomorrow
A homeless bully will take his space
So he will be pushed to the lower row?
Then he won’t be sure if he is at the bottom place.

If he got shot and goes to Hell
He would still think of a place worse than Hell.
This universe has no bottom.
Then why are we talking about the bottom?

Because we have an illusion
That we are falling, falling and
Falling further and further…
Hoping we hit the bottom eventually.

The Homeless

Sitting in a dark corner of a street
Hiding his lust-ridden face behind the shade
Begging for a shabby flower-adorned laurel
Trying to stuff his hollow mind
Dreaming his unflinching desire in a musty motel room

Can he move to get out of the dark?
Can he walk to the bright?
Can he run to escape the not-so-glorious past?
Can he work to buy his own tiny space?
Can he live to fulfill his well-worn dream?

His arms holding the filthy bowl of lewd craving
Are sagging feebly
Pondering his life in no-man’s lot
He’s not sure how vast his void is!