Transient
     
    
   
   
    
     
      He
      is
      alive,
     
     
      only
      to
      be
      interrupted
      by
      those
      who
      can,
     
     
      stand
      to
      acknowledge
      he
      is
      there.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      These
      individuals
      don't
      usher
      their
      children
      past.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      They
      think
      about,
      see,
      even
      pity
      him.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Guided
      through
      life
      by
      the
      bottle,
     
     
      pills
      or
      a
      needle.
     
    

    
     
      His
      cold
      truth
      may
      not
      be
      substance
      bound-
     
     
      The
      outsiders
      pass
      sentence,
     
    

    
     
      and
      move
      down
      their
      paved
      streets-
     
     
      His
      home.
     
    

    
     
      The
      wanderer
      may
      be
      broken,
     
     
      family,
      or
      childhood.
     
    

    
     
      Who
      are
      the
      on-lookers
      to
      make
     
     
      booze
      and
      drugs
     
    

    
     
      his
      social
      prison.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      To
      his
      "home"
     
    

    
     
      at
      least
      for
      tonight.
     
    

    
     
      A
      church
      basement,
      a
      shelter,
      a
      roach
      motel,
     
     
      offers
      freedom.
     
    

    
     
      No
      matter
      what
      his
      history.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      He
      is
      free,
     
    

    
     
      perhaps
      more
      unrestrained
      than
      those
     
     
      who
      pass
      sentence,
      and
      condemn
      him
     
     
      to
      their
      paved
      roads.
     
    
   
   
    
     
      Chris
      Doiron
     
    
   
   
    
     
      [7]