Beneath the Tree Next Door

Beneath the Tree Next Door

A Poem by Christopher Michael Smith

I scoped out the area with keen eyes.
Hoping the hungry fiend wasn't watching.
A fiend of narcotic proportion.
Homeless, nested beneath a tree next door.
Constant slithering of drunken words.
Begging for another coin to waste.
Hand out in wait for a hand out.
Eyes glazed over by crack's white smoke.
Cracked skin burnt by overheated pipe.
Toothless gums gnawing at the tongue.
Dilated pupils, whites gone red.
Angry outbursts from the cloudiness in his head.
Nappy hair aching for a trim.
Dead skin hanging from the pores of this haunted man.
5 foot five, if I had to guess.
Shoe-less feet exposing bunions left unchecked.
So I offered him some shoes too small for myself.
He took them and asked if I had any money to spare.
No, I answered, as he waited in stare.
Disdain washed his face from smiles to frown.
His tone changed from praise to despair.
Slowly he turned in aim of his homeless home.
Strutted forth back to the tree with a pitiful moan. 
I done my part and offered him comfort.
Then I remembered I brought lunch to work,
I'm sure he's had nothing.
I called out, gave him my food.
A sandwich and chips with a side of Mountain Dew.
He grinned in acceptance and understood my clause.
Blessed me in God's name as he recognized his flaws.
Bowed to my presence grateful for gifts.
Yet in that mind he wanted my wallet and I could totally see it.
A demon on his shoulder whispering ways of how he could get it.
I nodded my head, turned back to the store.
Strolled gently away as the demon hungered for more.
Glanced back not a single time.
I trusted my heart the light would shine.
Expected a bash, a knock to the head.
Received nothing but thank-yous as he gnawed on the bread.
Many moons have passed since that day in spring.
Still he expects my coins every time he speaks.
Money is every thing that is not clean.
So I choose not to offer him money to nurture the fiend.
Torn by life who knows what hand he's been dealt.
What choices brought him to the place where his soul he would sell?
I want to ask but afraid to know.
Eager, still, how would it go?
Easily could be me in the future beneath that shaded overgrowth.
Easily could be my children, or the demon could grab us both.
In faith I stand and hope nothing of the sort.
Yet what will the future hold for any of us before our serving of mort.
Whispering hunger from a demon's chemical appetite.
Perched on the shoulder offering nothing but soulless spite.
Feeding, too, on the flesh and the mind.
Hypnotizing ache for the devil's dirty find.
Wanting the soul of the poor little man.
Doing what I can to help by my hand.
Dodging the demon as it weeps for his flesh.
The bitter bullshitter now has nothing left.
Beneath a tree in the neighboring yard.
Will be the final resting place of that man.
One day I am sure.

© 2013 Christopher Michael Smith

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Added on September 16, 2013
Last Updated on September 16, 2013


Christopher Michael Smith
Christopher Michael Smith

Clinton, NC

Ego sum qui sum - 'I am what I am' Poetry is my creative expression here upon this floating ball of dust called Earth. Nothing feels as appeasing as watching a pen glide across a virgin page, watc.. more..