The poem is a first‑person monologue of a homeless, handicapped individual living in a state‑run shelter after a severe concussion caused by being struck by a car. The speaker describes the daily struggle for survival, the bureaucratic constraints of the shelter system, and the lingering trauma of past suicidal thoughts. Despite physical pain and mental anguish, the narrator finds temporary camaraderie with fellow residents, draws strength from spiritual belief, and clings to a hopeful vision of eventually securing a personal home. The piece weaves themes of despair, resilience, and the quest for freedom, ending with a resolve to keep singing and to let patience guide the creation of a place to call their own.
Chapters
Stuck here with no other place to go. I was powerless to change what once was in my control. Here and now, Handicapped and homeless, traumatized and penniless, an opportunity to cross the bridge over troubled water, but not without paying the toll. Fighting for survival, and trying not to forget that each day I live I am surviving. Being nursed back to health, and stifling my powerful voice out of fear, refusing to sing, hoping that someone I love would visit. Crying inside when it feels like I'm an inconvenience, or the day passes, they forget, or don't care. This is a fight for my health, my stability, and my rehabilitation from the shenanigans of what seems like a misfortunate chance. It's the first of the month, 12 times a year. My home, this shelter, is run by state-delegated manipulation that marks the calendar for my temporary welfare and winter dance. While waiting in long lines for security and bed checks. There's a time to live and a time to die. My time to use my godlike powers rests between the moments of breath from the womb to the grave, until my ascension to the sky. Yet here I try to stand on two feet, handicapped with a concussion and staples holding my head flesh together, an inability to rise again after being struck by an automobile, while walking to get coffee across the street from the shelter. Ironically, just a week before, I was so depressed over being destitute and alone that I prayed to die and contemplated plunging my undernourished body into oncoming traffic. Even though I had changed my mind, I eventually got what I asked for. Despite my resolution to refuse defeat, it was too late. The universe had put the operations in place for me. So, now, still alive, I'm making friends who are my companions through this painful strife and recovery. I know their camaraderie is temporary in its accessibility, but will last for the rest of our days with an honorary fraternity. With life, change is never ending, but always beginning today. I know I shouldn't fear what is to come. Tomorrow must become today before it can potentially sting or bring sorrow. The physical condition is nothing without a proper mental condition. Even more prolific in counterbalancing conditions and circumstances is the spiritual condition. So, the divinity that defines my directives from my destiny is dominating the detriment daily, drowning in demonstrative endeavors of destruction. That's why I hold tightly the torch of freedom. I feel like a captive to circumstance, tossed and lost in the whimsical dance of chance and happenstance, because I only hear the doubt and pessimistic dribble of others, but listen to one whispering words of love in my ear, refuting the threats on my life. This year, there is nowhere else to go right now, but I'm singing still because what I know is that Something is making the unknown something. Then, my virtuous patience will soon make a place my own, my home.
