Poetry

The sky was heavy with snow

as I sped down the exit ramp.

The red traffic light brought me

to a squealing stop.

On the gravel shoulder stood a man

Holding up a sign:

He looked about frozen

in his ripped fatigue jacket and fingerless gloves.

People always say the roadside panhandlers

just collect change for booze.

Perhaps it’s true,

at least sometimes.

Still, he looked cold

and alone.

I held a dollar out my window,

hoping to express compassion.

“God bless,” he murmured.

Embarrassed by his gratitude,

I smiled weakly

and drove way.

The platform crowd swirls around her

 to get to the open subway car.

 An urban Buddha amid lipstick-stained coffee cups

and abandoned newspapers, her eyes closed,

 immune to chaos that surrounds her.

Her oversized trench coat flutters

 as the train pulls away.

Her heavy jowls are reminiscent of a bulldog,

 also mark hard living and years passed.

 Her skin is the color of ashes gone cold.

Her graying hair pokes out of a hole-pocked turban

 as if attempting to escape.

Her large hands rest boneless on her knees.

Redden, enlarged knuckles whisper of labor.

There is a  shrill keening.  

She is chanting a mass,

in Latin.

Her eyes open suddenly revealing

 milky white orbs

that see nothing and

everything.