Heartless

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Heartless

“Most people who appear heartless are just

protecting themselves from more pain.”

--Sonya Parker.

Homeless ain’t what it used to be.

     too many families now--he thought, 

              lying on a bench in a tiny urban park,

     staring up at lighted windows in many

apartments; his brown paper sack 

wrapped around a tall bottle of

Thunderbird beside him.

Alcohol had ravaged his body,

destroying the vigor of yesterday,

attacking his weakened heart and

several other organs.

He tried not to blame her, but there was no

disputing that she had shredded his heart

more than a decade before. She lived in that

corner apartment on the third floor in the old

Chestnut Arms right across the street. He lie

there, his breath a ragged, fetid, malodorous

rasp beneath the brittle bones in his chest, 

almost alive, but closer to being just a dried out

husk barely covering the rot within.

He was with Sadie now, who always 

found a way for them to get wine--in

a crowded dangerous homeless camp

under the 410 freeway. She knew where

he was this Valentine’s Eve--below Kate’s

                window, hoping to get a glimpse

                of the brave woman who had once

                loved him, booze & all. Their son

                had died at three, and so did their

marriage. He had crawled inside a bellicose

battalion of brown bottles, She divorced him

& moved on to a new life. She had three kids

now, had married a carpenter.

Christ, a carpenter, He always chuckled when

he thought about it. He used to be a car sales-

man when he still had a life. His old patter, con,

smile & personality kept him out of trouble for

several years--but one dark morning he realized

all that had abandoned him too. Joy became a

dream bitch, not real, like all those young women

he saw on the streets. He became a thief,

                                                        a thug,

                                                        a mugger &

                                                        a felon.

There was this man he had robbed for thirty bucks

several years ago, who had been seriously injured.

His street name became Mac the Knife. He tried not

to think about it. He knew he wouldn’t last another

year--which released him from worry.

Broken hearts, like can-

cer, have their own agenda;

never a good time.

                      

 Glenn Buttkus

posted over at dVerse Poets Pub