This city is my home, broken bottles, littered streets, shadows of rats larger than tomcats.
My bed made of cardboard, my pillow of pavement, my blanket of plastic to keep me dry from the summer rains.
People pass me on the street, walking briskly and looking the other way.
Could it be this stench ridden, mildew stained suit I am wearing with holes in the knees and elbows?
Some occasionally shout for me to get a job.
Should I wear this wonderful suit I found in a Salvation Army donations box?
Maybe I will put down my home address as The Alley Between Wall and 22nd Streets.
I will just have to inform them that the mailman doesn’t deliver.
I wonder if they would mind if I have my best-friend come along?
His name is Jim Beam and he brings out the best of me.
Without him, I wouldn’t be capable of doing my job, but with him, they would not employ me.
I am dispirited by the life I endure, full of despair, loss of dignity and no loved ones to turn to in my moment of down for the count.
Dear God, in this moment of crisis, I turn to you.
Pick me up and carry me until my calloused feet take root in the foundation of your path of righteousness.
By, Michael A. Wiggs
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