Charles Peter Watson


He entered his home
squeezing through the tire
that was his front door,
pushing up the rug flap
that kept out the cold.
He set himself down
upon the old cushion,
lighting the crumpled papers
in the hole of the floor.
The room brightened and warmed.
Patting out residual cold
from his winter coat,
he rubbed his feet a
nd looked up to the roof
of patchwork tarp, cardboard, wood,
and sparse metal bars,
then to the milk crate
and his empty bottle.
Jostling the change in his pocket,
the home was hit
by the sudden cold rain
and storm winds.
The front flap opened
and the storm blew in
the first gusty guest inside.
With fire and cinders
whisked about the place,
he grabbed his bottle,
walked to the door,
and shut it with the crate.
Then, placing the bottle
through the crack in the door
to collect rain water,
he set down another piece of paper,
but one not for the fire.
The one he was filling out
with his old company pen,
and dodging dips in the crate,
he filled the application
but had stopped a moment,
returning back to the front page,
still wondering what to put down
as his address.

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