Homelessness, by Sonny Jackson

images courtesy of Pexel

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sure we've never met. I've lived on some of the finest corners of the world and have eaten with people of the finest degree. I've drank wine poured from the loveliest of glass bottles wrapped in the most eloquent paper bags. 

Oh, my name is homelessness. You say you don't know me, but I'm quite sure you're mistaken. It may not have been on a street corner or down an alley. It may have been while you were wrapped in your sleeping bag. Behind the dumpster of your favorite eating establishment. Or perhaps you had to decide between groceries or diapers, rent or gas. Maybe you couldn't afford a room in a hotel. 

So maybe we have met before.

So who you gonna call when the phone company shuts off your phone or you spent all of your 401K plan? 

Listen, my friend, we live in a world with lots of options. There are streets with heated vents to keep warm. City parks with lots and lots of benches, train stations, and as mentioned, lots of dumpsters space. City shelters you ask? Well, they're okay I guess. If you don't mind being raped, robbed, or beaten. Maybe you'll find a good one whereas you only have to deal with the guy who snores like a train or talks all night. Usually to himself. 

So, ladies and gentlemen, are you sure we've never met?

Sylvester “Sonny” Jackson is a writer and retired Marine. As many of you know, Sonny is one of the most important members of our writing workshop for people returning from incarceration.