Busy Sidewalk
Jan 22 2023
It didn't take long
to stop noticing,
carried along by the crowd.
Who all had somewhere to be,
most
with their heads down
intent on their phones.
A busy sidewalk
where the sea of humans parted
as if by some 6th sense,
stepping around the man
with the gaunt and grizzled face
huddled under sleeping bags
and pressed close to garbage bags
containing all he has.
Not panhandling,
just broken
exhausted
no place to go.
Who had planted himself there
in the middle of the day,
as if indifferent to the world
he had given up on
or that gave up on him.
At first, it felt uncomfortable
ignoring the homeless folk.
That is, until they became just part of the scenery;
as inanimate as light poles
bus stop benches.
As if the hypothetical question
had once been asked of them
— which superpower
invisibility, or flight? —
and they had chosen badly.
Everywhere
ratty blankets
and ramshackle tents,
homeless people dressed
in multiple layers
in the bitter winter cold;
old clothes
from a previous life
that could use a good wash.
Wet feet
bad teeth
bummed smokes.
Unhoused, not homeless
we're supposed to say.
But either way, I've stopped noticing.
Or, as scripture says, the poor will always be with us
so it must be true.
Although it used to be
the odd guy with his hand out,
some halfhearted buskers
playing bad guitar.
Not whole encampments
in public parks.
Not people
on busy sidewalks
like rocks in a stream.
Not deftly stepping around them
and all their earthly possessions
as if they'd always been there,
and probably
deserved to be.
This photo, which accompanied an article in this weekend's Globe, immediately struck me. The poem quickly followed.
I had to include wet feet. Because it really stayed with me when I read that the simplest, most basic, and most easily neglected thing you can do for people living rough is a good pair of dry socks. Cold feet. Wet socks with holes in them that are getting thin, soiled, and stiff. Yuck!! Who wouldn’t immediately identify!
No comments:
Post a Comment