Every night for the last five years

at Denver Rescue Mission's 48th Avenue Men's Shelter

at 8:30 pm is bed check

where if you want to keep your bed you have to be in it to check in

You can leave after if you insist that you have to

relieve the pain of addiction with drugs and alcohol

work the night shift

or are lucky enough to share a bed for the night with a loved one at home

with hopes of reunion and redemption

you can't get back in until 8 the next morning

Bed check is a constant like meal times

the weekly laundry line

and the random outbursts by the clinically insane

that help the 450 homeless men contained in the repurposed warehouse

know they are still alive

This fucking guy. I mean, this fucking guy

bending over tying his shoes

Moonin' Peter, Paul, and Mary

all the traffic just trying to get up to the next red light after A Hard Day's Work

He's tying his shoes, but the thing is

Is this fucking guy

He's got a peace shooter. Ass pocketed.

I mean, it was a 40 cal…looked like 10 inches, just sticking out like he ready to pull it somewhere

Well, by the time the cops got there, there he is, and he's reaching back, and they're reaching for their weapons

He pulls out a handful of shit

And they shoot him

But it wasn't shit

It was chocolate

A gaggle of 'em on the sidewalk

to share street gossip, a high and maybe some food from Jesus Saves

found objects as momentos of their way, nothing worth enough to steal, too dangerous, but still bling somehow

customized regalia bowed-up demonstrating fearlessness, demanding respect

faded colors on intricate layers of bad decisions, repeated bad behavior in survival mode

street blazed petina, sun bleached and wind blown and frost bit

scarred tattoos, limbs and back burdened from walking all day looking for somewhere to sleep

or walking all day looking for a place to get and use more and no sleep

years worn like rough-chiseled medallions,

trophy for surviving themselves and each other and the system that tries to help