Al Winans: He Sleeps in Doorways
He sleeps in doorways
Or on park benches
Does not want to go
To any shelter
Not even when pierced
By the heavy weight
Of a policeman’s baton
Under threat of prison
He curls into a ball in the fetal position
And closes his eyes
Trying to block the memories of Vietnam
The anxieties swirling and twisting in his head
Like the blades of a helicopter
Alcohol and drugs
The wasted years
Gather like cicadas
Inside the skull-shaped guitar of his mind
Playing rhapsodies in his head all through the endless night
A warrior troubadour of pharaonic descent
A pale-faced spokesman of lost tribes
Disguised as a homeless passerby
A poet-prophet of beauty
And all its imperfections
Enchanted by the streets
Kissed by angels
Neglected and dried out like
An untended wheat field in Kansas.
