The homeless man says, “The first part is you have to go somewhere that knows.” That’s all he said, to nobody, as people passed by on the street, nobody listening. I think to myself, is there any difference between my poetry and the ramblings of this homeless man? I don’t think there is, really.

The homeless man speaking poetry all day and nobody listens. Maybe he was a poet with a home at one point. Still a poet now but without a home. Maybe one of the best ever. Maybe he was too good and his poetry consumed him along with the drugs. No one will ever know, because nobody listens.