Bob Boston


Friday is the first of
the month.

Check day.

It's the only day
of the month many of
the homeless have
somewhere else to
stay apart

from the shelter.

Some rent
some stay
with "friends."

simply walk the streets
ending up too numb to care
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.


An eagle's army

of pigeons.

They aren't worth the skyline
they poison,
are a dime a
and die fast when their
are snapped.

Eagles prey on them
whenever they get the chance
reminded them
in charge.

Eagles keep them in
their rightful places.

In fear,
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
he's not as
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.



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