Homeless

“Homesickness Is a Flu That Surrounds Me …” – Pennywise

By Devon Clifford. There is a place in Abbotsford where a man is curled fetus-like, keeping warm by the heat of a hot plate, feeding off of scraps of the upper-crust and wonders why …

There are a dozen places in Langley where a dozen people lie shoulder to shoulder, shielding themselves from the bitter wind with the walls of a dumpster, and while they sleep, a young girl hears their idle cries and wonders where their home is …

And in Surrey, one hundred of the homeless brace themselves in a back alley, setting up their cardboard homes, while others gather around the discoloured, dishonest television screen, warming their fingers by the light of the cathode rays, watching the perfect people put on their perfect clothes and sit down to a perfect dinner … and just before the commercial break, the screenflashes the perfect carboard cutout home while the story of their lives plays in the background, gradually drowing out the laugh track, and the homeless look to their cardboard homes and contemplate their lives and wonder why …

But meanwhile, back in Abbotsford, that man rises from his sorry, sordid meal, and ceases to wonder …

All through the valley, a thousand people stir in their sleep …

… and he begins to scream for equality and for truth …

All through the valley, a thousand of the homeless know that they are one less in number …

… and the next morning a body is found, finger chewed away, fear etched on its face with a scream …

All through the valley, a thousand families rise from their dreamland slumber and a thousand mothers make coffee for a thousand fathers and a thousand children fetch the paper, and standing outside in their pyjamas with the newspaper in one hand and the doorknob in the other, they wonder how their cat made it through the long arctic night, but the cat is inside and nothing else matters, so a thousand children scamper into the kitchen wiping a thousand sleeps from their eyes while a thousand fathers stare down at the front page, frowning at the latest political scandal and wondering how it will affect their mortgages …

… and a man lies in the corner pf page 14, stiff, still screaming, and the authorites can’t tell if rigor mortis has set in or if he’s just frozen, and the authorities request your assistance in helping locate the family or friends of the victim, and, a thousand fathers see this and feel bad, but only because they know they should …

… and a thousand anguished spirits cease to wonder, and a thousand anguished spirits join the scream.

 From Devon’s parents, Ron and Edna: Devon wrote this at 17, which is also close to 17 years ago, on a snowy night when I was worried about the cat getting inside.  He wrote it for a journalism class, and it shows the depth of his compassion and maturity he had at a  young age.  When Devon wasn’t touring with his band, he was employed with the Portland Hotel Society, which provides various levels of shelter and also runs Insite, in the downtown eastside.  A friend that had worked there for years before Devon told us that Devon taught him the true meaning of compassion in the short time they worked together.  Devon found his employment with the society so meaningful, particularly at Insite, because he felt like he was truly helping people.  Devon died from a brain hemorrhage in April, 2010, and we miss him terribly and conitnue his quest to help people who struggle by providing music lessons for teens who are struggling.  If you would like to find out more about Devon and his foundation, please go to “devoncliffordmusicfoundation.ca.