By Brian Robinson.
Each night I dream I am a homeless man. I dream of arguments with family when I should have held my tongue. Of failed business ventures like feathers lost in the wind.
I dream of people with no pockets, walking by, pretending not to notice. I dream of being kicked and punched and being too weak to fight back.
I dream of a world that seems not to care.
Each morning I awake in a shop doorway. I attempt to smile but my lips are glued tight. I try a shrug but the chill of the night is still etched into my bones.
I don’t ask for much, not money nor mercy; just a night of endless sleep filled with the sweetest of dreams.