Homeless: the rose on a thorn bush
I tell a friend my buddy knows alleys and canyons like a scout by
day with owl eyes at night. He wears ideal body mass like
a mannequin wearing European-fitted clothing, and you’d think
he has a doctorate in survival economics with the way he
trades merchandise. He totes bags of kissed-then-forgotten
water bottles dropped like drained virtue then carries them to
salvation for a pocketful of change. He’s a Doctor without Borders
when repairing bicycles. He minimized his belongings to what
he could pile into a grocery basket. My buddy even has Mars dust
on his hair from drizzling meteorites while sleeping in starlight.
He nods, says you should have included he’s home-free, pats my
shoulder, and leaves.
Richard L. Matta grew up in New York’s rustic Hudson Valley, attended Notre Dame, and now lives in San Diego with his golden-doodle dog. When not catering to the dog or spending time by the Bay, he writes. Some of his work is found in Ancient Paths, Dewdrop, New Verse News, and Healing Muse.