...To mendicants, and those of lesser fortunes...

I have always held a guarded fascination with street people. Those that seem to make out some kind of an existance living in the streets of New York City. I have written several pieces on these street people and this is one of them;



Contemporary Forms

Propped upon the Church’s steps
turret-like
in Rodin’s sculpted pose. Armed,
within ruminations of what has gone wrong–
of what could have been.
His dark skin glistens,
(not a sole listens) as
twilight’s light burns
terra-cotta red.

He has chosen his covenanted plot
arbitrarily. The Church’s backdrop
signifying nothing– to him.
His white eyes watch all
that passes by.

A late afternoon repose,
repeated, and repeated...
Sweat pores forth,
little water beads collect–
The myriad of thoughts,
perhaps, in his head.

There is no pity exchanged
between us. He has his lot
and he seems to know mine.
The walk light turns in my favor
and I ford the street
as the cars subside.