Not for the first time
I sat in the cafe
Facing the busy street.
The beggar was out
Hobbling between the cars
Cane in hand
And a cardboard sign
Cigarette lolling
Between his lips.
Grinning
He waves at drivers
Stopped at the red light.
One by one
Windows roll up
Faces stoically forward
Like statues.
No one spares change
No one spares a glance.
They think they are so smart
Masking avoidant gazes
With sunglasses.
Traffic moves
The beggar retreats
To the sidewalk
Where passing bikers swerve
Around him
No hesitation
No brakes.
I am no better than them,
No more exempt
Sitting behind glass
Observing the menagerie
Of human life.
Is he not drenched in
This ink?
His very dignity
Shedded in these lines?
His life is an endless loop
Of walking in the sea of cars
Back up the sidewalk
And round again
Ignored.
A ghost
A residual haunting on this street.
It is deeply naive
But maybe my contribution
Can be to write for the one
No one has written for.
Isn’t a haunting still
A remnant of a life?
A Poet's Perspective 