Friends of the Street

I had a friend once who ended up on the street

He’d been married, with kids ... he once was an athlete

A mechanic with teams as they raced Tour de France

He was funny and charming and good with his hands

At some point, some point, his mind started to shift

Shadows and voices, his mind playing tricks

Schizophrenia came, and his mind wasn’t his

He lost his wife. He lost his kids.

Sometimes I think I see him walking the streets

But it never is.

Never is.

Penske Dale has been trying to keep his beer cold by putting it in Styrofoam.

He says it’s not working very well.

He’s from Philadelphia. That’s how his friends ... people ... came up with the name Penske

Dale.

“You like my little Pluto guy here?”

“You want me to move my chair to any certain position?”

Four days ago, Penske Dale got robbed ... they beat him up ... they broke his chair ... they took

his wallet and all his lighters.

He’s got Multiple Sclerosis.

He says he got out of the hospital yesterday at 4 O’clock.

“I got nothing. This $40 is gonna come in handy.”