Billie is still there
slumped over
sitting on the sidewalk
under the Memorial Mural
honoring the street cat, “Killer”

The wall just barely
holds Billie upright
where he lingers sometimes
for long stretches of time
with his chin on his chest,
a man somewhere in his 60’s,
weathered skin, close cropped gray hair,
things strewn all around
marking his campsite

Now that the weather is fair again
for many random days and nights
Billie crumples down under Killer

He slept through a day-long
Street Festival last Saturday.
People walked by seeing and not seeing
some thought he was dead
Police and Homeless Services
never get anywhere with him
when they ask—-he just says he is resting
and has only stopped to fold his laundry,
like nothing is wrong

When he decides to stretch
he always leaves behind
his newspaper mattress
mixed with stray papers
and rolling around cups

His walk is a fast shuffle
with short quick steps
moving hurriedly at an angle leaning forward
as though he is escaping something
but he always ends up back here
maybe with a new bag,
wearing new clothes,
though ill fitting
from the church

They say he was born here
in this neighborhood
and that he will never leave
this is his home

This is where his first dreams began
now drug dreams
lull him to sleep
with “Killer”
his only
companion