I took the day-old bread – they wanted
to toss it out with the orange peels
and wet coffee grinds. (Compost is a foreign
world with a ghost texture and
a muddy leaf-licking reputation.) Maybe I’ll
give the rolls to the person sleeping
in an inlet of the brick wall next to the
Chinese grocery. I think the person
changes, sometimes a woman, always
a bundle on the foam pad, a plastic tarp. There
must be a network of bedless who
pass the corner facts to wavering newcomers,
they wrap up in dough and await tomorrow.
I’ve never slept on the street – hammocks or
tents or the floor, but always far from exhaust
and sidewalk sludge. I live in worlds of
unpronounceable cleaning products and couplets
with curving line breaks. I’ve slept on airplanes
and boats, in a full bath of paper scraps,
my belly full of focaccia, pita, marble rye.
Street art. By Daniel john buchanan. Creative Commons License.
Filed under: Poetry Tagged: Buenos Aires, homeless, homelessness, poetry, writing
