Misplaced Under Roofs

by James Camacho

Time to venture outside,

a new day out there somewhere.

Indigenous pigeons can't escape

trucktire destinies.

Small room called home

stale with last week's plans.

Quick dips

in bathtub.

His fallen arches

insert worn leather

brown shoes, heels rugged

he opens paint-chipped door

watches sunlight playing

like long ago jacks

on old doorsteps.

When he steps onto the street

42 degree soldier

knifes him in the face.

His wool scarf ran away.

The ones who fear risks,

dressed for another day of corporate shticks

lock briefcase pupils

onto this brave lad.

He catches accusations

that dress him up in rags.

You keep chin up

No! Don't look down!

Keep it up!

Let it drown in sunlight.

Mafia-owned garbage truck

crawling past, can't eclipse your thunder.

A newspaper under one arm,

styrofoam cups hot coffee,

warms a man to the touch

Another store front heralds "Grand Opening."