a full block away,
and I see you see me.
Your grimace
tells me that
you have already
judged me,
sized me up,
and wished you
had crossed the street.
I do not
blame you.
You have been
hit up at each
successive intersection
of downtown by the
out of luck
as well as the lazy.
The panhandlers
have worn you down;
made threadbare
the compassion
of your youth.
Each story a
little sadder than
the one before,
hungry,
out of gas,
a little shelter,
a dying child.
I see you
coming,
a full block away,
reaching for
your cell phone
to put up a wall,
but I am not begging.
I clutch the homemade
chapbooks firm
in my hands
that I sell
too cheaply;
my heart and my soul.
I sell verse
on the streets,
the place where
I live, and I have
judged too.
At first I would
only approach
the dread locked,
or the skinny pants
canvas converse
tennis shoed,
or pairs of
well dressed men
who smiled
as they looked into
each others eyes.
At first I would just nod
when silver haired ladies
or camouflaged men
past me by,
I judged them because
I was worn and patched
and torn again
by others like them.
I thought
they would not
like me.
Slowly I learned that
art is not small,
the ones that love it
will fit in no box.
So as you move to
pass by me by
I smile, and ask
"do you like poetry"
and am pleased
that you stop
just long enough
to look at my work.
