Wandering souls are roving.
The spiritually crippled,
streetwalkers, junkies, drunks and home bums criss cross Acushnet Avenue. The sun shines on salvation like a blueprint in sandstone. Seeking cigarettes and sympathy; I have neither to offer. Avoided by my urban strangeness; I am a voyeur. They absorb the remnants of all my predatory past. Unsure of my purpose or capacity as I sit. In solace, wishing I could lead them. Knowing my limits, I write instead. Forever the squatter I trespass on their souls. Street life gibberish echos off the pavement. Fear and loathing, the homeless are roving.