Dirty glass before old paint A creaky, chipped, abondoned, abode waiting for any nomad to step into makes a treacherous combination Not of math or of sequence but of shelter and freedom denied by authorities And I think to myself beneath a summer sky A sky just above a cozy beach where a man sits and plays guitar by the shore I'll label this safe with my own spraying paint. With my own bare hands will I sit in the dark holding a light manufactured by a nomad long out of the laborer's job, for the brand discontinued in 1979. At that solitary moment I hear a sloppy drunken footstep approach the back porch. I the stranger, and neuter a stranger to me will welcome and be welcomed to this old house with an attic made for late afternoon tea parties and storage for boxes long forgotten, and a kitchen running brown murky water, and several rooms insilated just enough to be able to catch a disturbed, cold, night's sleep in. Perhaps we shall find a can together in the pantry, and I will provide three thirds for my new friend, and none for me. After hours we'll take a walk to the shore under the crab infested pier, with moonlit salty sea caressing our sore achey feet. Hours passed by conversation of corruption and misfortune, only to occur the realization we are lucky to have this vacation-like evening, however it is now dawn. The strangers part ways. This was my night with a homeless person. It wasn't so bad. Not bad at all.