The only other homeless man
I have ever known was Scott.
His poetry name was Reaper.
He lived on a beach in California
and wrote brilliant poetry
(most of the time)
and chatted with me
on library computers.
After he became homeless,
he could never find a job.
He'd go a week or so
without a shower, hair
in dredlocks, unshaven.
The library kept trying
to kick him out.
He had a tent, but
it got stolen, a backpack,
his writing notebooks
and a post office box
(general delivery)
where he checked his mail
every now and then.
He said it was hell
whenever it rained and
that he went hungry a lot.
People were scared of the reaper,
a big black man who was
a victim of circumstances.
He scared me too,
but wrote poetry that
there were flashes of
brilliance in.
He had a way of
alienating others and
eventually got kicked off
the poetry site.
I sent him a Christmas card once
with a family picture and
some of Morgan's poems.
It made him cry.
He probably still carries it
in his backpack to this day.
He will always be homeless.
Through the choices he made,
he will never work again.
I just can't picture you
emaciated with long hair
and a long unruly beard,
living in a box for
the rest of your life
when you have a choice.
Can't you see, baby...
You are too good for that.
You don't have to do that.
You'll end up getting
picked up by the police
and put in a mental hospital
like Boxcar Willie, or in jail,
or maybe even dead.
Don't do this.
There are so many people
who love you, baby.
So. Many. People.
