“Not here, not now” a gruff
hand insists, the brick square
public but not large, behind the shops
and the pub, dark now, a straggling
departer crossing to his car here, shadow
and there, fixed, a man hunched over
plastic bags, no where else
for now to go.
Later, he gets in our
back seat, dislocated to the wrong
donut store, this one not open all
night, or not to him, so we carry him
cross town to the other
– and if it were
colder, we might give him
enough, or barely enough
for a room though tonight
it’s warm enough for
for him to lean against the wall,
his bags under the plastic
table, just as I sleep when I fly.
How’d you wind up living like this, Frank,
we ask in the car, and he’s
honest, we have to give him
that:
Ah, I’m a terrible
drinker, he says,
I brought it all on myself. Yes,
yes, yes, he says, and
sometimes he can stay
with his sister
a few towns over,
but he
doesn’t really like her all that much,
or she, him, and really,
he says, it’s just a pleasure to
be out here,
moving through the world.
The.American.Word. 