Bitter storm-lashed halting site or haunt,
granite stone bench in lieu of hovel,
rawbone seat of pity for the pauper,
downtrodden, cast off, as I sense,
gut wrenching scruples writhe within me,
in situ almsgiver’s strident gulp,
respite, relief, twinge of conscience,
grim bench so derelict, let’s “address” this!
rawbone skinny and
leaning on a cane.
his eyes glazed as the
chill wind brought tears
and streaked them
across his angular cheeks.
his right foot in a
makeshift cast.
this old black man
had never seen an
easy day in his life.
there on Tampa Avenue
he had a look of weathered
mahogany, cold coffee,
thumb tacks and foot blisters.
if I’d had a twenty
it would have made it’s
way into his cup.
if there is a god,
I hope he’ll find this
man a tall bottle and
a warm bed tonight.
a little comfort
for a ruined soul.
as the light changed,
I dug into my ashtray
and came up with a few
lousy quarters.
looking into his eyes,
my heart broke a little,
like a cracked eggshell.
all I could manage to say
was, “I hope this helps”.
he nodded thanks
and moved on to the next car.
humbly and quietly
there remained grace
within this broken, old, black man.
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