As I rode my bike down Lake Street
on a warm summer day
I caught the gaze of a panhandler
holding a neatly printed sign in his hand

He was not unshaven or scowling,
there was no surrender in his posture -
in fact, he was wearing a clean shirt
and pleated trousers

Uncharacteristically, as I rode past him
he gave me a wink and a grin
as if we were drinking together, at Martini Blu,
ogling the same woman

But there was nothing I wanted
to relinquish - no quarters for the bus
or a stiff drink, no smiles of compassion
that would make this poem

(which has become increasingly oblique)
resound with humanity - just a squint
then a meandering shift of my pupils
to the asphalt, as if he weren't there

Like, who is he trying to fool
standing on a corner with his manicured sign
and white teeth? I want him to be a drunkard, someone
whose face makes me ponder

06/14/2008

Author's Note: published in Calliope Nerve

Posted on 06/15/2008
Copyright © 2024 Jim Benz