Post by goldenmyst on Jul 12, 2019 16:56:42 GMT -6
Vagrant in the House of Women
I sleep in sodium light shadows. There, whiskey weary souls expire like angels in the fetid night air. Their cardiac cauldrons pump like lovers in a final tryst.
On Christmas Eve the Soup Kitchen runs out of meals. The last cup of milk is served. I am a bewildered hobo who roams the storefronts in search of Yuletide generosity from restaurant owners. When I round a corner, an angel holds my hand and opens her van door.
My heavenly companion gives me a derriere boost and I feel the warmth of her hand through my threadbare trouser bottom. Her touch is like a hot ray of sunshine from the tree shadows to warm my back pockets on a cold winter day. She pushes me into the warm seat with heat blowing from the dashboard vents.
She takes me to a homeless hotel where private rooms and three squares await. There, pretty maidens all in a row are garbed in gabardine skirts. These angels of mercy are happy to serve and please the boarders with grownup candy striper smiles.
A lass pours me hot chocolate. At the entrance to the shower room, I am greeted by a magnolia mademoiselle who beams forest love. This worker glows a tupelo honey smile which is sweet as sassafras tea. Her camellia hands pass me a towel and I cross the threshold into a fresh outlook on life. Afterward, I taste the collectivist dream of mocha freedom donated by a coffee shop.
A bohemian damsel enters the picture and embraces me like an old friend but with my street dementia, I don’t register a clue as to her identity. I gaze at her lovely face like an Alzheimer patient. “How could I forget you, John? We go back to ancient Ireland. I was known as Avril back then. We waltzed naked in the woods. My only embarrassment was that none of the men tried to cut in on our dance. I must not have been pretty enough.”
I say, “More likely they knew not to mess with my woman.”
She replies, “Well, for a guy to barge in on your naked woman puts a different spin on things.”
“This is a most unique homeless shelter,” I say.
She says, “You see this is a house of wives who wait for their husbands to return in the transmigration of souls,” Jade proclaims.
I reply, “Of what possible interest could a guy like me who’s only skill is scrounging dumpsters be to you?”
“Once you were a blacksmith.”
“I also ran a video store. But neither of those occupations is in demand much less in existence.”
She replies, “Well are you handy with a mop? I could use a househusband to cook, clean, and wash dishes.”
I say, “I am good with a broom.”
“My resume has read custodial work since I was a teenager. So my job skills more closely resemble a housewife. Someone needs to bring home the bread. Since you ran a video store you must know about accounting. So it is settled you’ll take up accounting while I do janitorial work to make ends meet. Then with that diploma in hand, you’ll present yourself as an accountant. Then we’ll afford to send me to paralegal school so our pay scale will be close so you can still be a man.”
A maiden floats like a flute melody to lead me to the fount where hair conditioner will untangle my knotty crown. She lays her soft hands upon my head to bring me comfort in the hour of my deepest need. I feel the flutter of her silken fingers with tropic water pouring onto my pate.
She sifts the fine strands of my angel hair in the flaxen sheen love light of her touch. My wheaten ripples roll under the weave of her undulating strokes. Like a fine web of sweetness, my tender scalp becomes a pleasure garden with my ache joining her compassion. She leads me to the barber chair. There, my locks fall under the finesse of a scissor witch who reclaims the handsome man from what vagrant tears have wrought.
Jade my belle takes me well in hand. She says, “You refugees of the street are like unto Jesus. But our match is earthy as well as heavenly. So shall I wash your feet in the tears of the Dead Sea like the woman bathed Christ’s feet in her own teardrops.”
Uninvited she sprinkles the bottled salt water upon my feet. I smile like a boy on his first date when the pangs of his youth were soothed. Then she dries my feet with her hair like my wife from time immemorial in an act of love. Her frankincense oiled hands soften my callouses. But her most precious gift comes when she cradles my heel in her hands. Her kisses upon my bare sole feel like a walk in a bed of rose petals.
She says, “I fell in love with you when you passed through these doors even before I knew who you were. Your eyes had that mad gleam which won my heart from the first.”
My response is, “What was it about that woman who picked me up off the street that made me trust her when the men at the V.A. hospital couldn’t bring me back?”
Jade replies, “Men respond better to a feminine consolation of a sensual nature.”
I sleep in sodium light shadows. There, whiskey weary souls expire like angels in the fetid night air. Their cardiac cauldrons pump like lovers in a final tryst.
On Christmas Eve the Soup Kitchen runs out of meals. The last cup of milk is served. I am a bewildered hobo who roams the storefronts in search of Yuletide generosity from restaurant owners. When I round a corner, an angel holds my hand and opens her van door.
My heavenly companion gives me a derriere boost and I feel the warmth of her hand through my threadbare trouser bottom. Her touch is like a hot ray of sunshine from the tree shadows to warm my back pockets on a cold winter day. She pushes me into the warm seat with heat blowing from the dashboard vents.
She takes me to a homeless hotel where private rooms and three squares await. There, pretty maidens all in a row are garbed in gabardine skirts. These angels of mercy are happy to serve and please the boarders with grownup candy striper smiles.
A lass pours me hot chocolate. At the entrance to the shower room, I am greeted by a magnolia mademoiselle who beams forest love. This worker glows a tupelo honey smile which is sweet as sassafras tea. Her camellia hands pass me a towel and I cross the threshold into a fresh outlook on life. Afterward, I taste the collectivist dream of mocha freedom donated by a coffee shop.
A bohemian damsel enters the picture and embraces me like an old friend but with my street dementia, I don’t register a clue as to her identity. I gaze at her lovely face like an Alzheimer patient. “How could I forget you, John? We go back to ancient Ireland. I was known as Avril back then. We waltzed naked in the woods. My only embarrassment was that none of the men tried to cut in on our dance. I must not have been pretty enough.”
I say, “More likely they knew not to mess with my woman.”
She replies, “Well, for a guy to barge in on your naked woman puts a different spin on things.”
“This is a most unique homeless shelter,” I say.
She says, “You see this is a house of wives who wait for their husbands to return in the transmigration of souls,” Jade proclaims.
I reply, “Of what possible interest could a guy like me who’s only skill is scrounging dumpsters be to you?”
“Once you were a blacksmith.”
“I also ran a video store. But neither of those occupations is in demand much less in existence.”
She replies, “Well are you handy with a mop? I could use a househusband to cook, clean, and wash dishes.”
I say, “I am good with a broom.”
“My resume has read custodial work since I was a teenager. So my job skills more closely resemble a housewife. Someone needs to bring home the bread. Since you ran a video store you must know about accounting. So it is settled you’ll take up accounting while I do janitorial work to make ends meet. Then with that diploma in hand, you’ll present yourself as an accountant. Then we’ll afford to send me to paralegal school so our pay scale will be close so you can still be a man.”
A maiden floats like a flute melody to lead me to the fount where hair conditioner will untangle my knotty crown. She lays her soft hands upon my head to bring me comfort in the hour of my deepest need. I feel the flutter of her silken fingers with tropic water pouring onto my pate.
She sifts the fine strands of my angel hair in the flaxen sheen love light of her touch. My wheaten ripples roll under the weave of her undulating strokes. Like a fine web of sweetness, my tender scalp becomes a pleasure garden with my ache joining her compassion. She leads me to the barber chair. There, my locks fall under the finesse of a scissor witch who reclaims the handsome man from what vagrant tears have wrought.
Jade my belle takes me well in hand. She says, “You refugees of the street are like unto Jesus. But our match is earthy as well as heavenly. So shall I wash your feet in the tears of the Dead Sea like the woman bathed Christ’s feet in her own teardrops.”
Uninvited she sprinkles the bottled salt water upon my feet. I smile like a boy on his first date when the pangs of his youth were soothed. Then she dries my feet with her hair like my wife from time immemorial in an act of love. Her frankincense oiled hands soften my callouses. But her most precious gift comes when she cradles my heel in her hands. Her kisses upon my bare sole feel like a walk in a bed of rose petals.
She says, “I fell in love with you when you passed through these doors even before I knew who you were. Your eyes had that mad gleam which won my heart from the first.”
My response is, “What was it about that woman who picked me up off the street that made me trust her when the men at the V.A. hospital couldn’t bring me back?”
Jade replies, “Men respond better to a feminine consolation of a sensual nature.”
