No home, no money, no food
Puts me on your street.
When you spot me on your way to work,
Your face contorts.
How cliché of me
To own only a cardboard mattress
And grocery bag suitcases.
You wonder how my skin
Could possibly look that much
Like I had slept in a fireplace.
I almost think I see a chuckle
Forming on your face
As, in your mind, I sing and dance
To “Chim-Chim-Cheree.”
But the corners of your mouth fall again
As you realize how little
I resemble Dick Van Dyke up close—
It’s too bad I couldn’t entertain you longer.
You drop what you can
Because people are watching,
And over your shoulder
You watch me count out
The copper in my hand.
Between sips of five-dollar coffee
And glances at messages on your phone,
You mutter to yourself
That I should at least look
For a job, not just
Sit on my ass and exploit emotions for a living.
You begin to second-guess
Your decision to give me anything.
Surely, I’ll spend all eight cents on booze.
But I can ignore your judgments.
Now I’ve saved enough for a loaf of bread.
