He slumped thin and hunched against the night
and winter rain,
seeking the dry of a deep doorway
as New Year’s revelers passed, unseeing and unseen.
And when they were gone,
when the only sound in the dark was singing and violins
whipped aloft by December wind
he moved, scurried like a street rat around the building
to the looming green dumpsters behind.
We saw him as we parked our van, crouching
under his cloak of invisibility,
a disappearing shadow.
We locked the van.
On the sidewalk in front of the church
I saw him again. A fiver in my hand,
I handed my purse to my husband because
you never know, do you, and walked over
to the thin man in sweats,
toboggan cap and puffy jacket.
“Here,” I said. “Happy New Year,”
and moved quickly
away.
“God bless you,” he said. “God bless you.
Be careful driving tonight,
with this rain it can be dangerous. I see
a lot of things, here on this street.
People aren’t careful, they go too fast,
always in a hurry. Only the other day I saw
a lady on her phone, walking, and this car comes
and hits her, rolls her right over the hood.”
His blue eyes surprised me with their youth
and clarity.
“Lady in the car used her phone to call 911.
They came and got the one who was hit. I don’t know
if she was killed or what. You got to be careful these days.
The things I see on this street, you wouldn’t believe.”
We opened the church doors,
the strains of Irish fiddle and laughter
spilling with the light onto wet pavement.
“Good night,” we said. “Happy New Year.”
“Take care of yourself,” I said, as if he could.
“You two have a blessed new year,” he called, and waved a bony arm.
The door closed and warmth surrounded us.
His eyes followed us inside.
He stayed in my mind, that young-old skinny man
trudging towards the convenience store.
Maybe a couple horse quarts on his mind, or smokes that would trail
blue and ethereal into the night.
I thought of hs eyes,
bright blue surrounded by shaggy brows and beard
but young, late forties. The age of my oldest son.
He could have been my son.
He could have been my son, or yours, somewhere his mother
wonders where her boy is, and if he’s well
and warm and in the light
and if he’s surrounded by people, and music,
love and laughter.
He could have been my son.
He could.
Sad but all too frequent. Beautifully expressed in this poem.
Thank you, Libby. As you say, too frequent in our cities. I don’t witness it often since I’m a country dweller, so perhaps that is why it had such impact.