Winter

He lay his head down. The damp cardboard was ice-cold against his skin, although he had a full head of scraggly hair to keep him warm. The extra clothes he had taken from the hotel coatroom were already coated with a thin layer of frost, which seeped with ease through the thick nylon coats and leather jackets.

The skies were clear, and he watched his breath leave him in a plume of fog. As he inhaled, the cold sapped at his lungs like a knife, and he coughed wetly. The pneumonia was worse, but hospital fees were expensive, and medications didn't come easily without a prescription. There were some peddlers on the street, but there was a slim chance of finding any black market pills at this time of the year. Instead, he pulled the wet jackets close, tucking them under his body to keep the cold out.

A police siren blared, frighteningly close, and he pulled himself deeper into the alley's shadows. The wind whistled, drowning out the sounds as it howled through the narrow passage, biting at his face with cruel teeth. He pulled himself along with both hands numb in the snow, using the cardboard underneath him as a slide. The rancid smell of rotten food caught his nose as he passed a dumpster, full of the week's leftovers. There were some things not even the homeless would touch, unless it was a matter of life and death.

A sharp hiss caught his attention. By the restaurant's back door, a small porch light illuminated a wall vent, pouring a hot steam into the air. The dishwashers were probably running for the night. He pulled up close to the pipe, grateful for the warmth. Luckily, the pipe was unoccupied, and free for the night. He wrapped himself up as best he could, but the night air still nipped at his face and ankles. He closed his eyes and nodded off to a restless sleep.

The stars were out.

Writer's Block

His mind was blank, like the sheet on his desk.


The pencil obeyed swiftly in scratches of lead,
And his thoughts ran around like mice in his head.
The paper remained blank; he let out a sigh,
Watching as the page sucked his thoughts dry.

A white square that seemed to open the air,
To empty his head of the ideas he kept there.
The wastebasket filled with ball after ball
Of crumpled up paper, he tossed them all.

He looked at his watch, it was late in the night,
A comfortable bed was just on his right.
But he pushed on with one goal in his mind,
To finish one story, whatever one he could find.

So the hours rolled by, and still he remained,
He tried to invent stories, rhymes he all feigned.
The poem was done, but it was not what he sought,
So it went in the trash without a second of thought.

And finally he finished, with a smile on his face,
One page, with an effort, like running a race.
So where is this story that made him furrow his brow?
It's the poem you're reading on blogspot right now.