Scott Marks 3:01 p.m., Dec. 12
to the cart people, there but for fortune go I
Clatter outside the glass door No patio here to buffer The poet wakes up as the old Push noisy carts down the alley Gathering yesterdays Remains traded for food today Tin cans, paper, shiny things My red high tops
“They have more money then We do” say the smug about the Panhandler as they pass Without guilt “They’ll only buy booze” judgmental voices preach Giving permission to Leave the soiled heap look the other way.
“He is always here, if he can Show up to beg, he can get a job” Declare those that don’t try to understand Madness
The poet cleans out the closet Afraid to show the cart person Where the door is Fearful to let someone know of the Softness Someone so close to the glass door Behind where sleep is never deep.