The lamps above benches begin to flicker, replacing a moon that seemingly ceases to be, taken captive by the night and the masked clouded pillagers of deep space, revealing uniformed prisoners of the park, captives of misfortune revealed by the filth of their dress and a tenacity to stair at the ground. Throughout the flickerings of lights as flying bugs and lizards pass it by, a woman and her immature canine stand swaying from side to side in the wounded eve of night mumbling words to herself to converse with her own mind. While across the grass skirt that eddies a large tree, a man who i had spoken with that same day and had seemed sane as one can be, now walks with his hands spread out and his face angled downward toward the ground in the search for change but finding none, lifting the wind instead of coin each time it pressed on his tattered sleeve like wings. As well, two men, and these two must not be forgotten, sit with a chronic lean in defiance of responsibility shirtless, tattooed, and cold hearted. Yet they laugh gently while a white Swan, white as snow, rests at their side. They are feeding it dirt disguised as crumbs and they laugh to themselves but no one cares, they are hungry and their laughter is somber and quiet.
Those recreational travelers of the park and its trails have left for the night, their motion replaced by the outpouring restless pilgrims who have come to the park to sleep and be left alone in their abandonment, to stray from cars and sweeping headlights, to hide from the concrete whip, the cops, and the feeding time for violence in the urban city..
For every man or women that calls the park home there is one that does not know what home is anymore, plagued by lost finances, undiagnosed mental health issues, discouraged by failure and families that don't recognize their faces anymore, left to rot by a society that pretends they don’t exist. The homeless of the park become prisoners within this confines that have brought them there. The roots of the homeless are tied beneath them and each step these individuals take defined by their lack of home is a hurdle that few could ever get over. They are prisoners to a new type of freedom and were never trained for it, prisoners of new responsibilities and loss of the old, and prisoners to themselves and their supple idle time.
The shadows of night glide over them like they never existed. A commotion is heard over the random acts of sound that spring up from the streets that blockade the park, its greenery and fountains, to remain sequestered from the concrete arcade that surrounds it. Fleeing from urban violence and gangs, more homeless men and women somberly wade across the barren lined streets into the park to rest in numbers. Tonight they rest on soaked benches and against the moisture meant to clean the earth, but inconvenience those who seek it instead, and remain unseen like spilt milk or beer on the ground, caved in by the walls of lost resources and no means to get from one place to the next. The only people they know anymore have become fellow men and women of the streets and the park. But none of these relationships last very long in the city streets and parks. Often those who find rest in public spaces are quickly and forcibly removed by the law, put in jails to pay taxes and build guilt.
In the morning the trails will become alive with ducks at the pond along the edges and children and parents approach the water’s edge with bread, soon to be crumbs to feed them. Very view of the homeless will be around beside a few who have chased and bullied away those who have seemed like they were encroaching on the bulls of the yard’s spots or those who stayed quiet enough to make it the night by remaining unnoticed.
They homeless of the city exist outside the walls of society but are trapped by a routine of an apocalyptic sort of justice where survival is outside the law and goodwill comes from the weather or religious and social groups that can only help who comes first in line and the lines are ever getting longer.
As each day more and more individuals find themselves unable to meet the burden of paying mortgages and feeding their families, the lines at food banks become overwhelming and those who offer their time and recourses to feed the masses fall short and fights usually break out before the night is at its peak over what is left to be taken away. The streets become covered in those looking for help of any kind, even if it simply comes from the breeze from a doorway or the smell of a meal being cooked in a fancy restaurant before they are turned away. The park becomes a new home were they can exist as themselves. Usually after becoming sickened of being unnoticed by night time gallivants who are too nervous to look them in the eyes for the fear of seeing themselves, they seek the seclusion of the bushes of the park and try to stay quiet and rest before the heat and sweat of the day begins again.
Many of the homeless i met in the park are mystically proud of their simplicity but want more and it is impossibly to give them what they need for around the next corner there is another mouth to feed and they might have children with them. But there is hope in the good will of individuals who give them attention and look them in the eye at least to say they are out of change or money. But if you have something to give, give. It’s all you could want.
