Homeless

Note: Today's prompt is First Things First. There was more, but this is my first things first.

I crouch on the cold edge

of the bright blue dumpster,

the same high school blue

that looked so good with the gold stripe

on the boys' football uniforms.

My boy, my prom night gift,

is solemn this October morning,

fingers entwined in the red plastic mesh

of our overflowing shopping cart,

half covered with muddy black plastic,

protecting a damp heap of charity clothes

and army surplus.

The alley's first shaft of sunlight

makes my cracked fingers look

as if I've just been fingerprinted.

A sleek brown rat dashes up

from the stinking metal box,

fearless, it scrabbles

across my knuckles and down

to the oily pavement, disappearing

into the sewer grate.

Teetering, I gasp, and my boy,

his lip adorned with a worm of green snot,

shoots his wide eyes up at me,

where I cling like an overgrown squirrel

on the rim of the container.

Still refusing to commit myself

to the slippery innards of the dumpster,

I reach one hand toward the tattered

foil packets that spill crumbled

remains of baked potatoes.

Breakfast, or maybe it is lunch time already,

I don't want to know.

I want the taste of the mealy potato,

and maybe the pleasure

of smooth butter on my tongue

before I continue my rounds for the day.

I almost duck down when I hear a car drive

into the alley, but my eyes flash to my boy,

who turns and touches his forehead

to the cold blue of the dumpster.

My unwilling eyes are drawn to the sheer boxy shape

of the squinting white movement.

Through the glass, and through the ghost

of my own image reflected on the windshield,

I meet the stare of my best friend from high school.

For one tiny moment,

as she glides by in her metal capsule,

I see a flash of brake lights,

before the vehicle lumbers

into the bank parking lot

around the corner.