Bouncing With Joy

by Wesley Houp

Beneath the Pluck Miller

bridge, the homeless

are bouncing with joy.

Not since childhood

have they bounced

with such purpose.

But now they bounce

a contemplative,

adult bounce.

A joy without grins.

Two, three,

sometimes four at a time.

They like the weightlessness

of going up,

and the thrill of

crashing down.

One old man

does somersaults

like a Russian gymnast.

He bounces so high

the swallows pluck

at his whiskers.

A trampoline fell

from a truck and slid

down the bank.

It could’ve caused

real problems on

the railroad tracks

were it not for

the quick-thinking

of our locally unhoused.

One leg was broken

in the fall,

so they rolled

a rusty oil drum

out of the creek,

and now when they

bounce they make

a joyous noise

the deep, sonic

boing! of liberty.

The boing! of an

identity that refuses

to be told which

bridge to sleep under.

A boing! that lets

freedom boing!