“The average life expectancy in the homeless population is estimated between 42
and 52 years….” —From the National Coalition for the Homeless
My dad enjoyed hanging upside down like a bat;
he believed he would live longer this way.
And he may have been right. He has lived
on the streets 30 years past his due date.
Yesterday, I Googled to see if he had died,
a search appalling and calling, Refresh,
Refresh. Search and ping. Dad?
Dad, would I feel it if you left this earth?
The quieter tragedy of schizophrenia:
Not the break from reality, but the break
from relationships. I cannot reach you, Dad.
You have gone inside the earth, a lost
spelunker. There is no longer room
to argue with the optimism of escape.
The darkness, darker. Echoes, longer.
Inside this imagined cave, where is rebirth?
The dismissed rains drip and drop
until they drape the walls wet silk.
Cloth always appears at either end of a life.
On first smack with air, the swaddle
calms, leaving only the head exposed,
its furious, cave-mouth cry. And then,
at the end, the quiet in the room. The ripple
that rocks the dust motes as a loved one
or stranger, flicks sheet over face,
sealing out the echoes of the godless air.
