Saturday, May 09, 2009
To the homeless man scrounging for food in the trash bin
What do your voices say to you? You with your beat up straw hat, drooping greasy clothes and eyes hidden in uncut brows You crouch beaten by your illness that drove you to the pavement What do your voices say to you? Frail yet resilient, a son to a mother now nameless You are feared for your unpredictability Feral, wary, desperately hungry. You feed from the meals of the fatted calves of the city What do your voices say to you about me? Mine say don't give him money there are shelters Don't give him money -- he'll spend it on drugs. I watch you pick the lettuce bits from a plastic box as I carry my sandwich. I have money. You have none. Now you have money. I don't watch you spend the money. I'm not your police. You're a human being deserving some dignity. I hope the voices told you I was okay.