I see the man who sits with the spirited company of no friends. He’s in a cafe in the corner he picks to pick horses from the field in the paper. Weighing up the odds and asking himself what are my chances?
He is happy to be alone. Glad he has no friends. Thinking what he likes. Doing what he wants. Talking to himself with no argument. He has no money to write home about.
If there was a home to write home to.
Just enough to buy his paper and a one pound bet and his tea and watch it evaporate as he whiles away his time. Because he has all there is in the world before it makes memories around the cup. Or he’s asked to move along from this shelter.
He doesn’t worry about that, he has no worries. It’s cold outside and inside he is warm and contented with his ghosts. Not wanting to say I want to be alone so who wants me?
The going is hard but with the one pound bet there is hope. So all is well.
Except I see the man is me.
I would like to help a homeless writer