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Ten-twelve is the place where I write to you It is not my home I must remember; Yes, it is a place of warmth and peace; by day I am welcomed, nurtured; here I escape winter's cold and the icy stares of passersby and the chill and of loneliness I came here, wounded, broken and was healed by what I found here But when night comes, I'm sent away, told this is not my place and the door clicks behind me, softly and I head to where I belong- hostile streets, chill wind and lashing rain On my way outside, I pass a man in tranquil slumber on a couch; by day he devotes his life to the rescue of lost souls like me but at this moment, he dreams sweetly, unaware of the nightmare of that awaits me He was once in the place where I spend my nights; he wears the fact like a badge of honor yet his memory fades with each passing day of warmth The kind and noble people who belong here dedicate their lives to creating a world where all lost souls are well-fed, sane and sober and housed Meanwhile the gingerbread house where I've been living begins to crumble, then to rot A house like mine has no key and no front door At ten-twelve I thought that I had found a home but the illusion of belonging is shattered by the nightly click of that door to which I have no key.When I first posted this, I expressed concern about "biting the feeding hand." I don't care anymore. I'll leave the paper version of this lying around for all to read. Now, the door is always locked. Written February 1st, 2002 © on Feb 01 2002 05:16 AM PST   10 • 0