Lost

Wandering around in circles hoping to be found, I look up only to see the same cruel world above. People passing by, staring, as usual, looking surprised at what they see. Maybe thinking, “This poor man, where did he go wrong, is he on drugs, is he crazy?” It used to bother me when I first landed on the streets, I was ashamed of who I’ve become. Now I don’t think about it. I guess I don’t care. It took me to be homeless to finally not care what people think of me.

I get up off the cold wet sidewalk and usually start my day searching for a dumpster in the back of a restaurant so I can fill my stomach. The smell is terrible, but I have to eat. Then I walk. Sometimes all day without stopping. I have nowhere to go, just walk. Nobody to see, just faces. I feel everybody looking but nobody talks to me. So I walk. As the day goes on I find some half bitten sandwich or take puffs of a lit cigarette that somebody tossed away.

My feet become swollen with blisters. I have no shoes, just socks. So I rest. When the pain in my feet lessens, I walk some more. I’m tired. I have to find my next sleeping spot. I used to hide and sleep tucked away down some old cobblestone alleyway. That was when I cared. Now it's right on any sidewalk in front of lots of people hoping that I might get some spare change. So I sleep.

Usually a light sleep. I hear all the sounds of the night, a barking dog, people talking, cats meowing, and the occasional drunk peeing against a wall only a few feet from me. Some people laugh at me, throw things at me or just shout “Get a job bum!” Often I have to get up and move away, to avoid being kicked or punched. So I walk. Not knowing my destination. No birthdays or holidays to look forward to. 

Sometimes I think I'll be recognized by a family member or an old friend and maybe they would stop and talk to me. Maybe they would help me get back to my old self. Maybe we could laugh and tell stories of how it used to be. Maybe they could help me get a shower and put on clean clothes. Maybe I could eat a cooked meal off a plate with a knife and fork in a warm home. Maybe, just maybe, I could feel loved again.

Sometimes this dream seems so real as if it’s going to happen at any moment. But it quickly ends when I hear a screaming voice telling me to get off the sidewalk and keep moving. Maybe someday this fantasy of mine will come true, but for now, I’ ll just keep walking.

~ Jim Mcgranaghan