Sweeping the Trash

(inspired by conversations I have had with unhoused encampment residents)

You don’t sleep on the dirty city streets
Without a tent.
Unless the streets department has taken your tent
And thrown it in the trash
Along with your papers, and ID, and money, and medication.
And in the trash collecting, looked at you in disdain
And called what they were doing ‘a SWEEP.’
And you knew they considered YOU the TRASH.
You don’t sleep on busy sidewalks.
Unless you have tried sleeping in public parks,
and abandoned buildings,
or in cars or trains,
or airport terminals,
and police have SWEPT you from these places
and you know they considered YOU the TRASH.
You don’t sleep in public parks
Or abandoned buildings
Or in cars
Or trains
Or airport terminals
Unless there are no available shelter beds,
Or the available shelters are unsafe,
Or the shelters have blacklisted you for reporting the rape you endured within them.
Or the shelters have a no pet policy, and your canine is not a pet, but your only companion.
You don’t sleep in public parks
unless the family you have cultivated in these public spaces
Is more family than your own flesh and blood.
You don’t sleep in a homeless shelter
Unless you have no home,
Or are escaping domestic abuse,
Or have been cut off from family,
Or you family lacks resources to feed and shelter another body.
You don’t sleep in a homeless shelter
Unless you lost your income,
Or missed a rent payment
Or had a medical emergency
Or could not pass the credit check needed to sublet a room.
You don’t sleep in a homeless shelter
Unless you were evicted by the slumlord who took your money without a lease agreement and threw you to the streets when he sold your home to a retired couple from the suburbs who heard the housing market is hot.
You still return to the shelter
Night after night
To the hard cold mat on the floor
Next to the man who stays up at night screaming
And your belongings have been stolen
And the shelter staff closed their eyes
When you are attacked in the shower
For taking too long.
Despite it being your first shower
In days.
You return
maybe because the shelter is softer
than fingers frozen by frostbite.
You don’t panhandle
Unless panhandling is what you need to survive
Knowing the looks
And insults
And the
Get a job
You dirty bum
The rain and snow and heat
Heat so intense it could burn a kingdom to the ground
And snow so cold
It takes your breath in an instant
And your toes and fingers over time.
Maybe the abuse by passing pedestrians
And the police harassment
The citations and fines
Is better than the alternative.
You don’t fall asleep in public,
Your possessions as a pillow
Your head protecting them from theft.
You don’t fall asleep in public
Unless there is nowhere private for you to go
such as a house,
or a homeless shelter
no one leaves home unless
there is no home
or home is a wound.
Or a broke-down car.
no one wants to be handcuffed
pitied
sleeping on concrete
unshowered for days
or months.
Kicked,
Spit at.
Recorded on the camera phone
Of the boy who works in the corner store
So he could share it on his Facebook page
for all the world to see your shame.
The boy with the camera phone
Sees you as other
As inhuman
As trash
But really
You are him.
He is you.
And that frightens him more than his growing debt.
Because you remind him
Of what he could be
With one missed paycheck
When all is stripped down.
When all pretense is gone.
So they sweep
And you knew they considered YOU the TRASH.