I carry my life in a frayed canvas pack,
a zipper that sticks, a strap that bites,
my pockets full of bus transfers
and half-forgotten addresses.
Tonight I try the shelter first—
a line curling in the cold,
breath rising like smoke signals
no one answers.
A clipboard, a nod, a cot—
for some.
For me, maybe later.
They always say maybe later.
So I drift to my cousin’s place,
where the porch light flickers
like it’s deciding whether to trust me.
“Just a couple nights,” he says,
already nervous I’ll become furniture.
I fold myself on the couch
like a bad origami crane,
trying not to rustle,
trying not to exist too loudly.
Morning pushes me out.
New place. New couch.
A friend from school who remembers me
as someone who laughed easily,
not someone who flinches
at the sound of trash trucks
because I dream of being thrown away.
I’ve learned the etiquette of displacement—
don’t take up space,
don’t ask for seconds,
don’t stay long enough
to learn the pattern of the ceiling.
Every house has its own silence,
and I sleep inside borrowed versions of it,
leaving before the sun can expose me,
a ghost with a backpack,
haunting upholstery.
One day, maybe I’ll unlock a door
that’s mine.
But for now I drift,
a tide chart of spare rooms and sofas,
mapping survival
one night at a time.
-
Author:
Matthew R. Callies (
Offline) - Published: November 15th, 2025 08:36
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
Everyone needs to be somewhere and all need a place that accepts them. A lovely poem of drifting through life always wondering where one will end up. Well done
Well writ. Is this you or an imaginative account?
Reality: In the day, I missed street life and couch surfing by a whisker, Joined others and squatted derelict buildings. At that time (early '70's, UK) it wasn't a criminal offence, only a civil matter.
This is me. In ten days it will be one year of homelessness.
Do you mind me asking? Where do you live ? UK? US ? plus how do you find the time to write so much poetry? Being homeless is more than a fulltime job on it's own.
(stupid question? You obviously have an extensive archive!)
I live in the US. Much of my poetry was written pre-homelessness. As for new poetry, it's not so much finding time as it is making time. Poetry is one of the only escapes I have at the moment, so making time is essential for my mental health.
I wish you well. I have absolutely no idea what your day to day existence is like in the US, but I sincerely hope you find a solution soon.
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