NOTHING IS FREE

How did this boy, face dirty from sleeping
in doorways with rats and questions, come
to live in the alley between Broadway and
Congress. The narrow strip marks the 
boundaries of his life. He looks reed thin
and smells like the garbage dumpster
behind Applebee's. He knows how to dive
in and search for the least dirty fries
left by some lover so engrossed in conversation
that throw away is the consequence of
words whispered in the near-dark booth.
He has seen them as they gather their coats,
wrap themselves in love and a red scarf
he has learned not to covet. He wraps the
few pieces of newspaper he can find, torn
by feet rushing to work. And he grinds
his life out by learning not to want. Food
is never a desire. It's a way to survive. He
has learned it's not even a daily need
if survival is the only goal. And he does
not set goals anymore. He dreams in
monochrome when he does. He sits over
grates for the heat they give in the cold air
of the city; he removes his shoes to dry his feet 
and socks. He has learned all the city's economy 
and knows that nothing is free. 

© Valerie Bridgeman
December 21, 2013