Poem: Bumrest

Is there ever enough rest
for a bum on the streets?
There are no bums I know
who say they're well-rested.
From sprinklers to cops
to cold or the shakes;
there's always something
to keep a bum moving.
The promise of food,
or money, drugs,
or just clean socks.
Maybe a need to pee.
Always on the move.
A nap in the park,
a drunken knockout before dawn,
who knows what day it is,
when the world is not marked
by sleeping and waking,
night and day,
job and freedom.
Just hours, just time,
ticking away forever.

Some bums stay awake to fight the time,
others choose downers to slow it to a still.
Some choose nothing but prayer and meditation;
they're usually the Nuttiest.
But time must pass regardless,
and none of us get enough rest.

The mind gets fuzzy after a couple of days
without sleep.
Even when you're sober as a skunk.
Too fuzzy to make plans sometimes,
to make sentences.
A slight, blurry, auric-fuzz
on the edge of your vision,
surrounding everything you see,
slowing reaction time.

What? Huh? Muscles ache.
The jaw clenches.
Speed or crack is almost tempting,
just to change the exhaustion.
But, no.
Got to just keep walking.
Been here writing too long.
Need to go to the bathroom.
Just keep going until sundown.
Then sleep.

Then another day.