By Charlie Moger

This street. This life. This is mine.

Life without disappointment. Every day. Easy. It’s the now. Expel expectation. You get that? Let them go.

Happiness. It’s a gold ring hung out of reach from the bouncing horses of this day-on-day, merry-go-round life. It’s all so much tin.

A tinfoil lie painted gold. I know better. I’m here. Here in my now. No plan. No Place. No departure because there’s no destination. Nobody and nothing but my brother’s bedroll over my shoulder, resting warm on my back; its my home. When night comes, any dry place is good; dark and away. Eyes slip shut. It’s the only time I’m even more free. My home. My family; a fading scent on the strands of this borrowed bed roll; quaint notion that: Mommy. Father. Brother. Me. The one no one sees.

They have no need of me, nor I of them. They want things I don’t. I see things they can’t. God makes mistakes. He must. I’m one: a life delivered to the wrong address; no return, no forward. A soft peg in a hard place. Set aside. Unresolved. No address is a better place.

Weighed down with obligation, responsibility; burdened by expectation’s tonnage. That’s life in the house where I don’t live anymore.

I live here. In my now. It’s all good. It’s my choice. Maybe it’s God’s plan.

I wonder about him. He is that He is. What’s that about? My mind is free to be.

God’s? Cluttered and covered by every detail of every day of everybody. No thanks. I like my now. This. Here. My step that leads only He knows where. Or, does he?

Does it matter? It seems to now… since you. You. In the culvert, wet, scared; shivering for want of two warm hands. I scoop you up in mine. But, just for now. That low rumbling affection can’t take hold of me. My life is this street.

Are you hungry? Listen. This won’t do. You can’t expect…. I can’t. That’s the recipe for disappointment. And, it’s not on my menu. Those tender eyes won’t tempt me off course.

You’re a traveler like me, aren’t you?  Then, you best be on your way. I have no room for needing… your gentle pawing at my jacket.

Damn. Enough. Go. This road’s mine alone. Goodbye’s pointed ache passes. You best remember: life in the now has only space enough for one. For me.

I know it. I think… Down you go. Do you get it? I’m going. Now. Bumping at my leg won’t win you any prizes. There’s no warm milk and cuddles by the fire here. God’s sent you to the wrong address too.

You get that, don’t you? Overlooked. Maybe so. Soft fur. Hard street. What chance do you have? You’re not fast—nor strong. Someone better watch out for you.

Might as well be me. C’mon back up. But no promises.

You and me. This street. This life. It’s ours. Let’s go.