I went to Writer's Voice Cafe tonight at the Library. The speaker was James Reed, and his subject was People of Color on Cape Cod. It was fascinating! It was also my first night of being in charge of the open mic portion of the evening, when writers are invited to get up and read their work. Paul E. Halley read and then I read this poem, which I wrote some years ago as I was traveling to Philadelphia. Hope you like it.
I noticed him right away.
He was wearing a football helmet.
His coat was too big, too wrinkled
to be legitimate. Also
he had all his things
in garbage bags. Big, black ones.
Street people’s Samsonite.
Homeless, I thought. Come in here
to sleep
on the hard, shiny waiting room
bench
until they roust him.
Wrong.
I looked again.
He was old, and I saw white curls
clinging
to his dark brown head. When he
took off the helmet, his
eyes, pulled down at the corners,
were too sad to look at.
The people moved away.
He sat alone in the center
of their conclusions, their fear.
“Don’t let that be me!”
“Don’t get too close!”
They turned their heads to look
for someone more acceptable.
Was he so accustomed to their scorn
it didn’t touch him?
Or was he just a good actor?
No.
I looked again.
His eyes were sadder than before.
Who are you, old man?
How do you come to be here?
Should I feel sorry for you?
Should I feel guilty?
“Why don’t you go away?”
Barked the janitor, armed with
brooms and buckets. Finally
he had someone smaller than
his own size to pick on.
“You crazies think
you can sleep in here?
My station ain’t no flophouse!”
The old man said nothing.
Wrong.
I looked again.
His face was a question.
“What have I done to make you so
mad?”
it asked. The janitor could not
answer
so he just got madder, while
the old man wondered why.
The people kept away
feasting from afar
on the juicy little scene, their
smiles
self-rightous, their security
assured,
positive
they could never be him. Well, almost.
“Don’t get too close!”
A cop came over, ready to roust, I
thought,
ready to send him packing.
Wrong.
I looked again.
Instead he brought hot chocolate
and honest conversation,
and a smile to those sad eyes.
Policemen are your friends,
I remembered from my youth.
The minutes ticked away
in the train station in providence.
The people moved in to fill the
space
around the old man. He is okay.
He has a train ticket and
a cop for a friend.
That makes him valid. He can’t hurt
them.
That they have hurt him
never enters their minds.
And what if it did? What could be
done?
Nothing.
I looked again.
He was leaving, going to his train.
The policeman carried his bags.
He walked, slow and straight,
putting on the helmet.
“It’s because I fall sometimes,”
I heard him tell his friend.
And then he was gone away,
before I could find a way
to thank him for
what he had taught me.
Providence train station 6:15 AM
Lovely,Phoebe. I could envision the story in my mind's eye. I have been there but the cops weren't my friends. "You look tired" they said, and sent me to the purple room.
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