The man standing on the corner
fixes me in his one eyed glare.
"Look ma'am," he begins,
ungloved palm up,
"I mean, Mom," he corrects himself,
"I am not a bum."
Who he sees makes
me look at him,
his one eye taped shut
with two wide strips
of clear packing tape,
the skin of his face
red from the cold.
"I need to get home," he says,
with pleading plie,
"and no one will help
because I am not a resident."
New to this town myself,
I hand him my only dollar.
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2 comments:
Hi C. Fine poem. It reminds me of Jon Carroll's Untied Way which he encourages us all to "join" every December (latest version here). (Hope I got the html right to create a live link.)
So glad you're back!
Love,
J "Don't out me" J
I won't out you. Thanks for propping me up so often, dear pal-o-mine. Praise from you is high praise indeed, oh lady of the Ode to Light Beer.
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