Ricky
I sit on my stoop
watching him wander the street,
skinny as all hell,
scraggily hair and scraggily clothes,
coffee in one hand,
and a smoke hanging from the other
plus a baby boy’s face
you’d never expect.
Peach fuzz clings to his cheeks
as he shakes from the cold.
I watch him wander up and down,
he has no one to meet,
no where to go,
not even home,
so I’ll lay a blanket beneath the stairs,
hoping he’s not too proud to use it,
and in the morning
I’ll bring him
coffee and a smoke,
to start another day.
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