The Riddle of the Broken Streets

I walk broken streets

Under a full red moon lit by Wild Fire

Looking for answers to questions unasked.

Among the dark corners and dim alleyways,

Bags of paper and plastic refuse

Are indistinguishable

From the human refuse,

Huddled in shadows from the cold

And the eyes of human predators.

A woman far too young to be looking so aged,

Twitches,

Her hair in disarray and fluttering

With the slight wind that smells of burning wood.

Hands shuffling and twisting at odd inhuman angles

To a swaying spine

As she waves at the odd passing vehicle

in a hopeless attempt to sell

What little is left of her humanity and dignity

For a World of Dreams.

A large, heavy man on a bicycle

Built for some one far smaller than he,

Looking like the bear at the circus operating a tricycle,

Offers to sell me the vehicle beneath his girth.

I ask to be shown the sales receipt

And he glares at me menacingly

Until he sees that instead of radiating fear,

I shine with amusement.

Two young men, tall and thin and looking underfed,

Ask me if I want any "product"?

One offers me "Hard" while the other offers me "Pint".

I reply in the affirmative

And ask for fifty cents worth of each.

Their already glazed eyes become even more confused

And their movements freeze in a combination

Of bewilderment and indecision.

The Mountain on two small wheels I left behind,

Demonstrating an amazing gift for hearing,

Hollers at them

That I am an"Asshole"!

The bellowing sound of irony

In that he has stolen from a child

Does not escape me.

A colourful caravan of trash filled shopping carts

Circled for the night

Under the care of urban gypsies

Is secreted in the outside cloister of a "soup kitchen".

These elderly miners

Of square metal caves and alley depositories

Study the value of what was deemed worthless

By former owners.

Patio umbrellas and stretched tarp forming a torn roofs

And bunched blankets and bags of tattered linen

Form the dismal palaces and thrones of these destitute kings.

I gracefully refuse their royal commands with a smile

To come sit and share

Hard liquor and tough stories.

Turning southward after my late night sojourn

I see the river valley

And spy the twinkling light among many

That mark one as my home.

I am startled, for I am

Approached by an unkept scavenger.

Her appearance and smell

Disguised by smoke scented wind and darkness.

"Gotta spare smoke?" she asks

With words that carry as much grace as emotion.

Like tribute to an ancient city Gate-keeper

I hand her the paper wrapped tobacco

And exit her world.

Under a bright red moon lit by Wild Fire

I have found answers

Among those that live among the night

Upon broken streets.

The questions of course,

Are still unknown.