BRYON D. HOWELL

The Poetry Of..
Bryon D. Howell..................................................

HOMELESS AND HOLD THE PICKLES

When I first started staying
at the shelter,
I promised myself I wouldn't get
sucked
into other people's

bologna.

I would simply lay on
my bunk from
4 PM to 6 AM,
only getting up to use
the bathroom,
eat,
and make my nightly call
to my grandmother.
I stayed true to myself for
just about

a week.

Before you knew it,
I was hanging and conversing with
my new-found friends.
And although I never did quite
get sucked into
the bologna,
I sure did come to
appreciate -

all kinds of sandwich meats.

HOUSE

I suppose there's plenty
I can do
to furnish my brand new
home, to improve the quality -

of living.

I can carve holes
into the walls,
and tape napkins around them

as drapes.

I can steal a pen from
City Hall,
write my goals on
the walls
and call it A work

in progress.

I can even lift a crate from the
soup kitchen,
position it in
a corner
and call it -

a cool credenza.

These are the things
which I can
achieve
when I think -

inside the box.

THE BLEMISH ON THE LAZY-BOY

There are 75 men staying
at the shelter
on a nightly basis.

Once in awhile,
a 76th man
will enter and
plead -

a case.

Usually drunk, high, and
hovering,
he'll swim and sway,
screwing and through-ing
everyone from mother
to murder,
and continue to poison
his well

in the foyer.

After 15 or 16 minutes
of banter or so
and threats of the police
being called,
he'll rest the case
and leave,
and the couch
breathes a sigh -

of relief.

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