It's the only day
of the month many of
the homeless have
somewhere else to
stay apart
from the shelter.
Some rent
rooms,
some stay
with "friends."
Others,
simply walk the streets
ending up too numb to care
where
they end up.
It's the one day of
the month―
they're "someone's"
with friends
and lives.
For the 29 or so days
which follow,
I am their
only friend.
The only one with
smokes, change,
and sense.
RIGHT-WING, WRONG FEATHERS
An eagle's army
consists
of pigeons.
They aren't worth the skyline
they poison,
are a dime a
bushel,
and die fast when their
necks
are snapped.
Eagles prey on them
whenever they get the chance―
reminded them
who's
in charge.
Eagles keep them in
their rightful places.
In fear,
hungry,
and battling a war they will
never win
every time their
wings flap.
But just what
are they protecting
the eagle from?
The fear that maybe, just
maybe
he's not as
invincible
as we'd all
like to think.
Without the pigeons―
he's nothing.
Dethrone him
and then
we'll know peace.
It's a pigeon who'll land
in your hand
and knows what
it means―
to be loyal.
Bob Boston, a poet residing on the East Coast, is indigent and moves constantly from shelter to shelter at this time. Although he has been writing for many years, these are his first published poems.
