Christopher Michael, gay, gay poetry

The Invisible Ones

The Invisible Ones

I so rudely stated, recently, an unfortunate comment
that the homeless, disenfranchised, the mentally despaired
roaming city streets, they were human trash, and my
apology to one and all who might have heard that
crass remark, the greatest sadness, a burden we
all carry, spread across “the nickel,” downtown Los Angeles
or any city, living in cardboard homes, transient dwellings
a blight upon the city screaming our shame that
this is so now as when beggars begging alms in mystic times
and places, sleeping, eating, shitting
in public, making existence as best as can under the worst
of circumstances

my mouth apologies, they are not human trash
but we have thrown them away, turned a blind eye
covered in grime from head to toe, dirty brown
hair, clothes, the stench repellent, how does god allow
there are not enough shelters and many
in their not all that long lifetimes seem to live their
existence out and public as reminders of where a human
life can sink, gazing down at them from penthouse
walled in glass, thinking high up we are privileged
descending as we must also, to mingle in their
fetid dirty air and be reminded how far low the human
spirit can go, and yet
and yet, these lost and left behind, pitiful only in our
arrogant eyes, survive the daily misfortunes of lives
lost, not wasted
do they love, do they hope?
I do not know where do they go?
I see them roaming, walking in constant motion
or seated like grey stones waiting
for death or life to happen
they die and we did not know their names, their hearts
their dreams
how can I question that, how does a divine gift
of spirit end up lost on city streets, spent, tired
in eternal sadness or simply lost inside their own minds

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