Camelot

By Sean Michael, May 2012

In the dust, thin shards of glass are scattered:
What used to be a meth pipe.
A syringe is partially buried, protruding from the earth in its virulence.
I discard the device into a bag of thrash not knowing if it will end up back in the dirt.

Bodies lay bundled in blankets a few feet away.
Beneath a makeshift tent trying to evade the rain.
There’s a freeway running along side the camp;
Cars go gliding past.
I watch a solitary figure walk quickly across the bridge above–
On her way home or some other place to escape the downpour, I surmise–
The canyon’s slopes are beginning to muddy as the firmament cries.

No fiefdom of King Arthur’s court, this valley called Camelot,
But a domicile of scarred souls and wounded hearts.
Many faces I’ve seen in this canyon where homeless reside;
The sadness unmasked,
A loss of home revealed in their eyes.

Dresden Files book cover

I’ve found well-meaning souls in Camelot, and those only out  for themselves:
Many will share with you their bread,
While there are some who will filch your only bite.

What brought you to this plight?
Was it war, drugs, money or family problems?
So many trek through Camelot each passing year;
Their tracks left in the earth, then covered again as new feet shuffle the dirt.

The rain is still falling as I rise to leave.
I hear a voice, beneath the makeshift tent, mumble between
consciousness and sleep.
Fleetingly, I wonder what it is they dream:
Of a better place — somewhere or someone they used to know?

I meander down the canyon’s muddy slope, being soaked in a cascade of rain.
Once in the valley, I lift my head up to the sky,
There is no blue, only thick sheets of grey.

Is there no exodus from this abyss, O’Camelot, great captor of souls?
Will the drugs continue to reign?
Will the lost be found or forgotten?

With a roar of thunder, the empyrean seems to riposte.
I look around me as the sullen rain drives furious:
On the freeway, the auto’s passing swish,
The bridge now free of pedestrians,
And through the foliage, I glimpse the blue tarpaulin shelter…

I’ve seen innocence and innocence lost in the beggary of Camelot.
For some it’s a fate they’ve accepted, living on the streets.
Still, for others it is hell.
As I stand in the downpour pondering life, my feet grow
restless and my mind begs for ease,
So with one last glance up the muddy slope, I turn to leave.
Reaching into my pocket I find my pen and paper there,
The blank page beckoning with an offer of reprieve;
I need to gather my thoughts….

Where I go, I shan’t know until arrival —
Emerging from the tenebrous Camelot.

[Note: This Camelot is in San Diego, CA.]

Posted for  dVerse Poets, Poetics, December 9, 2014