Shabby Blanket

The warmth of this moment
is a blessing.
The cold winter’s gale is blowing
ferociously,
and I have no scarf or mittens.
My coat is merely a child’s
baby blanket,
bundled tightly around my shoulders and neck.
It’s threadbare in a couple spots,
that’s probably why it was in the trash.
The family at 143 Elm Street
threw it away last Thursday
after they returned from Macy’s with
a new, soft red one.
But it was my luck in wandering
through town at the right moment.
This old blanket will serve me just fine,
and I said a prayer for those folks for
blessing me this Christmas with
an old blanket.

Now I’m home,
the rusty old yellow train car
to the side of the tracks,
you know the one on the way
out of town?
The one with most of the windows
still intact.
I think the lettering on the side
used to advertise
shaving lotion,
or was it Coca-Cola?
It’s been too many years...
not that it matters,
this old tin can is of no use to anyone,
save me,
and I’m sure that the folks in town are
glad
that the railway graveyard
is pretty far out of town.
It would spoil their
perfectly manicured lawns
and bright white fences
to have me too close to their suburban utopia.
It reminds them that their American Dream
is filled with rainbows
and garbage,
with wealth
and
unspeakable poverty.
But that doesn’t bother me too much,
not really.
I’m grateful, actually.

Would you like to step into my humble abode?
Pull up that old wooden crate, and I’ll make some
apple leaf tea.
I know, it sounds strange,
but I picked the leaves myself
after dark
two nights ago
at the orchard
half a mile away from here.
It’s really quite refreshing once you’re used to it.
And bless you for joining me this evening.
It’s not often that young people visit
a crazy old bum like me
out here in the train graveyard.

They don’t remember,
or don’t want to remember
that once I had everything
they had.
I wanted everything they wanted.
I was the head of the University’s
English Department,
with a PhD from
Stanford.
I painted my fence white every Memorial Day.
No, they don’t want to remember.
It scares them too much.
They think their world
is so solid.
Secure.
And to sit across from me in this old car,
to look me in the eye,
to see the
remarkable contrast that is possible
in one man’s life is
unimaginable.
They don’t want to think about it.
They are content to
get all worked up over the evening news.
To worry about the rising cost of gasoline
and how the kids need new sneakers and video games,
and the cruise to the Caribbean they simply
MUST
take this summer.

No, I wouldn’t go back to that life.
I live this way
by choice.
I know it’s hard to fathom,
and please don’t misunderstand me,
that’s not bitterness
you detected in my voice.
It’s frustration.
What has this country become?
What have we become?

Ah, regardless,
there are things I’ve seen
in this way of life that
I would never have seen
otherwise.
Things I’ve felt
and known
that can’t be experienced
in the comfort
of society.
It’s my choice, yes,
and tonight
I’m grateful for this
shabby
blue
blanket.