A Tenant On Earth

Charles, proud of his borrowed coffee cup.

Inappropriately, I sometimes believe I am important.

Sometimes, I slip up and convince myself, mistakenly, that I own things.

This morning, only mere moments ago, I was texting with my brother, Charles.

This morning, like all mornings, Charles greets me with a good morning brother text.

This morning, like all mornings since I’ve known him, months now, Charles brightens my day.

Charles is very-very rich and he owns many-many things.

Charles is rich. Charles is rich in spirit, rich in wisdom, and rich in virtue.

Charles owns many things. Charles owns his behavior, his mood, his intentions, and owns them well.

Charles is experiencing homelessness.

Charles has no dollars in his pockets, not a one, nor any others stashed anywhere else.

Charles has no employment, no car, no coffee pot nor spoon, no bookcase nor briefcase, none.

Charles has two daughters but is un-allowed to see them or call them or send them birthday cards.

This morning, Charles joked he is just renting space in my world, for now.

Ha-Ha.

Ha-ha, but no.

But no, it’s no fucking joke.

I replied ha-ha, it ain’t my world bro, we’re all just tenants borrowing this here time and space.

Charles said Amen, nothing he has is his, or is something he is not willing to give up.

I categorically concurred with Mister Charles.

I sincerely believe this is veritably correct.  

My car, my house and my, hah, presumptuous land, I might hold title to.

But I cannot fit them on my person so therefore, duh, these things are not truly mine.

Even the shirt across my shoulders, not mine.

I am just a tenant on earth, borrowing these things, for a relatively short-short amount of time.

Go do good shit today.

~ Bird out.