The Word on the Street

The following poem was written about four different people that I met while serving hot chocolate to the homeless under Burnside Bridge, in downtown Portland.
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Adam winces and wails as he pulls the shaft from his ass.
He thought at last he was going to wash the cold away,
“But the times, the man, the system…” he says keeps him at bay.
At least Adam has his candle.
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Rodriguez is Solomon of the streets,
but I can call him Rod.
A voice of reason, when life does beat him
he will still smile and rise, for he is like the birds.
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Smallboy is not so small at all.
A native son, he sits singing ancient songs
of love, life, and lament for the loss of his Lenore;
but still he sings.
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John is on the run from the government,
because he now knows why we change channels.
The challenge is to unchain the Navy’s barbed bug in his brain,
because he is not insane.
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With a cordial cup of cocoa,
an open ear,
and a handshake that is blind to the grime,
We do what others will not:
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We put names to these beautifully filthy faces.