Semis. Box trucks. Cars carrying families across the Bronx on the  Bruckner Expressway. All in a hurry to get out and get away, unaware of the homeless down below. Tents, sleeping bags, coats making makeshift mattresses, trash barrels burning debris into the night air, beer cans and glass pint bottles, crack pipes, and needles, scattered under the roadway running through Hunts Point where rape and murder is just a shot away. 

Vagabonds collected, coming from all over. Some as far as Florida, youngsters from Missouri, the Midwest, South and Southwest, all coming on dreams and notions. Winding up with burnt lips, track marks, and constant states of drunkenness. The congregation here was never high on the Holy Spirit.

Meg sleeps in the arms of Ben. The two are covered with plastic garbage bags and coats they bought at Goodwill. Ben promised he’d always take care of Meg. This is the best he knows how.

He keeps looking at the two. The strung out kid across from them, shaking on the ground, keeps staring. His stomach is sour, vomit reeks, and the smell of shit lingers off of him. His blood-shot eyes keep staring. He wants warmth as well. There is no one for him to cling to. He used to have a mom; a luxury he gave up on a few years back. Now there is no one.

The groans, moans, crying, dead silent stares, all of it as traffic roars overhead. Meg closes her eyes while Ben keeps one eye open.

When can we go back to the house? Meg asks. I miss my mattress. It wasn’t perfect, but it was ours.

It was on loan, Meg, Ben tells her. Shhh. Try to sleep.  Everything in this life is on loan. We keep nothing. Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Daddy’s gonna buy you a mocking bird. Shhh.