How close we all are to the precipice...

This is the last in a trilogy of poems that I wrote about people that I would see in New York City on my daily walks to work. My sense was that they were homeless or certainly had experienced living on the street and in the shelters of New York City. They would catch my attention and this is a work they inspired in me;


A Hand Held Out...

We are the scuffle-shuffle
clean-cravats, stainless-shoe ones.
A silent procession.
And, he is there as always.
A hand held out– suspended–
not so much asking, (but waiting...)
to assist if we too, should stumble.
And those eyes. Like none I’ve seen before.
Penetrate deep into the soul
as we pass by.

There is no need to express
in words what he needs.
The hand held out, as the seasons pass,
the stoic pride, as he leans on his cane;
the soiled clothing is his language.
And audible it is, these words with no sound
this language of those muted
by the indifferent world.

He receives so little
from us, a paltry sum at best.
But he is that reminder to us– fresh
from our morning showers,
indomitable in our chosen attire–
life is a hand held out waiting;
taciturn, waiting to grab us
when our mettle fabric
shows signs of wear and tear...