Jim got beat up at the shelter

so he carries a monster face
on his head, to my house
and whispers
through the scabby hole of his lip
tales of the homeless
jackboot logic and a violent fist

even as I listen
belligerent words and blood
are drying on his face
quizzical, lost, unshaven
and filthy

the hospital released him like this,
into the winter without a coat

he tells us that
another man's nose
was cut off the night before, a prelude
to this unwelcome kiss

there was a time

Jim had bright eyes that shone
polite, happy and coarse, respectful to me
but shaded with reflections of hurt
and anger grown
from pain not understood, a world of hurt
that crashes down in hammers
of laughter

and mean words

whenever Jim speaks, he sputters, in confused logic
a social truth of thick tongue and excitable cadence, stories
of injustice and trips to Vegas:
thick glasses frame his cross-eyed hope

hard-scrabble eyes in his head
are now sort of filmy with uncertainty
and degradation, but hope is still
there, subdued:
once he loved a wife who loved him back.

now my beautiful wife leads him
to our bathroom where she gently
cleans his face and soothes him with kind
words and sympathy. Her compassion
is a tonic and a balm, intoning

you can't stay the night but
we are your friends and will love you

08/20/2005

Author's Note: this poem is a couple years old, so it reads kind of clunky to me but I don't feel like fixing it. this guy's still homeless, has MS, and gets beat up on a regular basis. we do what we can, but he makes bad choices.

Posted on 08/20/2005
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