The Alley Ghosts

I remember the days of being a delivery driving
in the heart of Los Angeles,
cruising those cold, dark streets of three am,
business with iron grills across their entrances,
walls covered in graffiti,
neon signs with broken letters
you had to use your imagination to read
and the endless blocks of soulless streets.

How often I would pass the rescue mission,
lines outside of those sleeping on the pavement
who weren’t among the fortunate
that made it inside before it ran out of room.

Kept the windows rolled up
because of that stench like rotting potatoes,
which often rose from the gutters
was so overpowering when I had to get out
in order to make a stop.

Drove past the cerulean glass towers
of the famous Bonaventure Hotel,
along with the tall buildings where the banks rose
as towering edifices in the downtown.

On the radio the talk show host
preached his message of charity
how proud he was of the city
working so hard to help the homeless.

But it was hard to tell when you parked in an alley
seeing the ghosts that the government forget,
always cringing inside
knowing I wasn’t much better off,
separated by my minimum wage paycheck.

Sometimes able to share some change or food,
ever nagged by their eyes,
life long ago bleed from their view,
another heart abandoned to the concrete wilderness.