Chicago poem April 3, 2005
This man walks the street
carrying sickness.
His heartbeat is irregular.
His blood is thin.
He hurts.
This man walks the street
away from his grave...
away from his home...
away from the government that looks for him
even though he does not want to be found.
This man walks the street
into a crowd...
into a mob...
into a mass with no face.
He wants and so he works.
He works and so he has
something
just enough
to get by.
This man walks the street
in his hat and coat
and his money in his pants pocket.
His money won’t buy a plane ticket...
or a train ticket...
or a bus ticket.
He will thumb a ride or two.
He will thumb half a hundred rides
before he’s done.
This man walks the street
that is older than he is...
more guarded than he is...
more bloated and broken and bruised than he is.
He is cold
but only on the outside.
This man walks the street
from shadow to shadow...
from cloud to cloud...
from setting sun to dawn
and what does it get him?
And what does it get him?
And what does it get him?
This man walks the street
without asking what it gets him.
He knows.
At least
he knows enough to suit himself.
Right now.
© 2005 Charlie Newman
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