The Saint Francis Center is hopping this morning,
people lined up all jive and jest
the addicts and drunks and misfits
file in and out, raw around the edges
after a weekend of bingeing
the guy in the wheelchair out front
seems to be singing an opera tune,
the high notes run away from him on little feet,
dancing down the block
the geraniums in their pots flanking the doors
wilt from abuse, their dirt used for more and more
cigarette butts, an urban ashtray
above the city din, the air ringing with
the music of trash cans being thrown around,
the opera singer's aria rises and floats
some visitors sit outside, cardboard signs
and plastic cups arranged before them --
the Center staff tries to lure them back in,
home of rancid coffee and stale platitudes
but most go back out into the world of dirty sidewalks,
dirty asphalt, rushing toward the pop and fire
of a needle, the sweet smell of rot at the bottom of a bottle
they are the kings and queens of the street, the royalty
of the city, all tattered robes and tragic smiles
the week stretches out like a tangled ribbon before them,
almost impossible to unravel
© 2022 Debbie Collins
Debbie Collins lives and writes in Richmond, Virginia. She has been published in many print and online journals including The Wild Word, The Lake, and Third Wednesday, among others. Her first chapbook, He Says I’m Fierce, was published in 2021 by Finishing Line Press. She lives in Richmond’s Northside with her husband Jonathan and their dog Billy, Billy being the subject of many haiku.
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