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Poem

The city is a strange place.
People shifting, walking lines and punching time cards.
Strangers looking, their eyes and mind in their own little worlds.
A woman on her cell phone.
A man in his car.
A couple holding hands as they walk down the street.
Then there is the man that we wish to not speak of,
The one in baggy jeans and dirty hair.

There's men on their way to the office,
Sipping their warm coffee and impatiently waiting for the light to change.
For every one man walking with a suit and tie,
There's five more men holding a cup,
Begging for a dime.

The city is a strange place.
A place of wonder and color and all things lively,
And then there's the man who can't pay for the ragged shirt off his back.
He walks, sleeps, prays
Lonely nights and cold pavement.

Every year, people flee to the city
Jumping trains, planes, and Greyhounds
Riding roads and railways for a cheap chance of finding a home.
Every year, some people become movie stars
And singers
And everything dreamed in a dream.
Some become the man asking for a dollar, 
The man the dreamers pretend isn't there.

The city
I know now that it is not the city that is strange.
People are strange.
No one wants to be poor.
No one wants to have no home.
They look through those who are below them,
Holding their breath as they stroll down the boulevard
Hoping no one asks them for their hard-earned money.

The city is not strange.
It is a refuge.
A mother with outstretched arms for those who are in need.
It weeps for the men on the streets
And beckons people to show empathy and love for them.
There are a few kind souls who pitch them enough for a meal
Who give them a warm smile as they pass by.
"Thank you. God bless you" say the men.

The city cries out, "There is hope."

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