They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
They sit waiting. Or stand. Mostly in their own worlds. Some chat with one another though. They smoke. Share a light.
Coffee cards. Coffee cake. Socks. A shirt here. A sweatshirt there. Some eczema cream for his hands. A belt. Any pants? No pants. Any backpacks? No backpacks.
'Any books?' the Reader asks.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I may have books.
I show the photograph of that young blue eyed man to the young blue eyed man. He smiles. Then he shows me the color variations in his eyes. A tad of yellow here he says. A tad amber down here. The man knows his eyes.
Many regulars are not here. It's the first few days of the month. Checks come in. Jingle enough for a moment. Rooms to rent for a night or two. Addictions to feed. Pains to soothe. Things to do.
May they know some peace and may I never assume what that may look like.

You are not a foxglove but as the frail looking fox attempts to trot down the street this morning...

 
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You are not a foxglove but as the frail looking fox attempts to trot down the street this morning, in the pedestrian lane looking wounded and mangey I will think of you nonetheless. The fox. Looking at me without concern. Much bigger issues at hand. And then I look at its' hands, its' paws, and I think of you again, though you are not a foxglove. 

He asks me again and again if everything is alright with me and if he can help at all with ANYTHING...

 
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Dear Anonymous,
He asks me again and again if everything is alright with me and if he can help at all with ANYTHING and he assures me he is at my back. Street brothers. Street sons. I know he struggles. I know he has shown me a bit of his big heart. And we stand out here bruised and tattered with coffee cards and socks.
There's a request for tents if anyone has simple and smaller tents they'd like to move on.
A woman comes by and takes some shoes, a pair of pants, a coffee card and blows her cigarette smoke directly into my face. Half affectionately. Half diabolically.
I'll take that as a win.
They all arrive and then disperse. Some gulping water. Some gulping coffeecake. Heading for a beer. A cigarette. Heading for a coffee. Heading to do some dumpster diving. Some dealing. Some whatever. Many will make sure they say goodbye. Some will send their 'Love yous'. Some will be unable to lift their eyes...those bricks holding a secret they search them for.

Friends this morning holding a fresh copy of the July 2020 edition of MAINERNEWS featuring excerpts from TRANSIENCE BOOK II...

 
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Dear Anonymous,

Friends this morning holding a fresh copy of the July 2020 edition of MAINERNEWS featuring excerpts from TRANSIENCE BOOK II, a memoir about homeless existence here in Maine by Kenneth W Beek. You can pick up a copy free all over town and please do. Kenny's writing is insightful, rich, honest, humorous and spot on. I am honored to have my images of Kenny used on the cover and throughout the article. They were taken on a morning like this, only it was cold. And Kenny's good pal Joe Blaze threw an arm around Kenny and asked 'Would ya' take a picture of me and my best friend?' Kenny, having trouble focusing his eyes and stumbling and slurring his words a bit offered this unforgettable comment: 'I'm not on the street 'cuz I drink. I drink cuz' I'm on the streets.'
And that, for me, was a tipping point.
Thanks Kenneth W Beek.

https://mainernews.com/category/views/transience/