Street Man?

Old, gnarled hands,
Black as coal and strong,
Responding to my steady embrace of
Greeting friendship.

Teeth as white as snow,
Revealed when one more smile
Spread across his face,
As he read, sized up my inviting grip.

Talking only of work to be found,
And he over seventy;
And of his wife on the street in
Her chair, terrible home on wheels.

A blanket’s what’s needed here,
He declared against the cold wind outside.
Night, a tough duty with a freeze
Blowing down what’s left of today.

Come to think of it—the grip was warm,
A couple of bucks for a pack of smokes
Would be right nice, and a bit more for the fee
Collected at the Army’s noisy, nosey Salvation gate.

The wind it is sure enough cold
Against your face, and that blasted
Chair sits awful hard and chill
On a night like this one’s bound to be.

No blanket to be found here,
He settles for loose pocket change
Rounded up in a rush to drive away guilt
In the face of an empty-handed retreat.

A promise couched in our manageable
“Come back tomorrow” for the cover,
By then surely the world will have
Changed for the two of you, as if warm wind would blow.

Tomorrow sometimes never comes
For people who have it all
But not what’s really needed;
We had no reappearance for the blanket.

What did I miss? What did he know?

Larry James