When I first started working at this library, one of our "regular" homeless people was Sonny. He came in every day. He had a supply of very short pencil ends in his pocket, along with bits of eraser. He spent much of his time writing poetry, which he would copy. Photocopies were left lying on tables for us to find. In time, it felt like Sonny was a friend. He'd stop and visit; I taped a couple of books together for him.
Then I think about two years ago he disappeared. We heard that he had been arrested. And he didn't come back. Until today.
He looks good. His travels led him to Florida, where he stayed about a year. He's going back in a couple of weeks. I hope he comes by to say hello again.
And he left me three poems.
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