the season

There are boys here today. And grey-haired women breaking bite-sized portions of their chocolate chips cookies. There are red to-go cups with white xmas trees and snowflakes branding the yuletide season encroaching upon us. And a few couples, seemingly content and in routine. What do boys talk about in these coffee shops when with their pals? I'm too far to overhear. That and my music drowns out the busyness here. It's raining outside and the wind blows us here and there, like cattails. Cattails amongst the dry, brown grass once green. He walked through it this man I think of, who lives in swamps and bogs. He minds not the squishing of his boots through the squishiness of the spongy underground. I can barely make him out against the setting sun shedding light upon the webs spun with perfection. Wait I have become distracted, I was talking about boys and xmas. Right. Focus. Focus.

In-Transit

Who would have thought life was near impossible without an address. Such discrimination against us vagabonds. Someone with a life here and there is almost invisible, unaccounted for, ignored, perhaps feared. Merit and acknowledgment for the safe nine to fivers but all the rest are vultures, inexplicably fortunate, weird, unstable and so on. The ones who walk where no one has walked are blamed for trespassing. They are alone in the burden to trudge through stagnation. How can we stay motionless and expect to move? We have the capability to be better but we choose to just be approved of by someone and not necessarily someone who knows us. We'd rather have a complete stranger forgive us for our transgressions than achieve any notion of self-acceptance.