HOMELESS IN NYC
Michael Keshigian
I crossed 42nd to get to Fifth
towards mid-town
and just paces in front of me
an old lady pushed a shopping cart
full of identity.
Bags of cans dangled
from each elbow
clanged as she waddled
in clothes
worse than a country scarecrow
though her straw gray hair
hung longer
tied in a tail with brown hosiery
to match her stoic, weathered face.
It pained my heart
when suddenly she squatted
and froze
in a deep knee bend
like picking something off the sidewalk.
I quickly approached
to help
unaware of the problem
till a puddle formed
and its river flowed
around my shoes
down the curb.
In the privacy of her mind
she transformed
my sympathy
to confused helplessness.