A Petrol Can, Client & Case Manager.

Wings clipped, small cage and no nest.
Doused with regret and despair.
Days on end without rest.
Tethered to a petrol can.

With sweat dripping from his skin,
He takes poise to disconnect.
He flicks his flint to make a point.
Racing thoughts no longer churn.
Seconds stretch as fumes advance.
She now listens with intent.

With a clear but shaky voice,
He pleads with her to listen good.
Tears now running down his cheek,
He takes a breath to show his rope.

Conflicted he displays remorse.
He explains that she is safe,
That the can and rope, are for him.
That his old soul has run it's course.
That he is there cause no one hears.
With his head held low and hand outstretched
She takes his hand and he takes hers
He sobs,“Thanks for listening”
With that he was finally heard.
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I dug this one up out of a few others I wrote for an online journal some other place. Poetry was a good source of reflection for me. I think I may give it another shot. I got a few about my homeless days as well. I've lived through some intense situations, but thankful I'm still breathing. I think perhaps I make my next poem about that.

Comments welcomed.