The Reader's recent article about the homeless people in downtown San Diego, revived my sincere concern for their health and safety. Especially with the cold nights we have been experiencing lately. I like so many others would like to do something more viable for them, but when face to face with these individuals, I feel intimated not only by their appearance but I wonder about their sanity. Since each has walked a separate path, each must have a unique problem. I wrote the following poem in hopes that others might understand my thoughts.

                Outinda Street

Who are you out roaming the streets, The one without spirit, but not sore feet?
Gone is the sparkle from your tired eyes, You with aroma that offends even flies.

Was it a lover who wronged you to cause such pain, Or a goal you set, but could never attain? Have you no recollection of the good times you had, Or do those memories only make you sad?

Surely, you have concerned family somewhere, Kin who realize there’s no safe haven out there. Do you have a place where you can rest for a while? If I told you a joke, would you even smile?

Was this your design for a grand vocation?
Look back if you can, recall the progression Sloth—parasite—self-imposed sedation. And now, there’s nothing left—only decay, As you stand idle, like a smokeless chimney.

The more affluent throw things in their trash, Which you later defend, calling it your stash. Is this how you survive when working the streets, Dealing with harassment, surrounded by cheats?

You go to sleep late, Then make sure you’re up early.
Enjoy the liberty, but beware the price. It's not always fun, being left to one's own device.

Since being doomed to never walk with a bounce, How long before you lack strength to find sustenance? With purpose lost, it must be hard to trudge along, Or appreciate the comrade as he belts out a song.

Oh, how long the day, Getting through it such a feat. Answer me this, How much longer can you last Out in the street?