I had a pretty tough double shift at the shelter last weekend, when we had to ask two visitors to leave. That is always really difficult, because it means they will most likely be spending the rest of the night on the streets. And everything about it just makes me sad for everyone involved.
The hard truth is (involuntarily) living without a home is dangerous and the vast majority of people I know who have died were from this community. It's heartbreaking because they are caring, and sweet, and helpful, and smart, and talented, and beautiful, and hardworking, and selfless, and gentle, and kind, and funny, and complicated... And really, really screwed badly over by life. And nothing is fair.
Anyway, the following poetic feeling bomb was inspired by true events.
Who's Counting?
He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn't know where he'll sleep tonight
or when he'll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real?
What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?
He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd's pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.
On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren't enough to fill the void
between the found and the lost.
And I wonder,
if someone's counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?
