"What the Homeless Man Knows"

by Stephanie Drinkard

He walks in tattered galoshes or dirtied sneakers
     in spring, summer, winter, fall --
in sun, and sometimes rain
     warmth, and sometimes cold.
Downtown, his kind huddle in packs on heating grates
     stamp frozen feet in soup kitchen lines, or wander
mumbling to themselves.
     But he, unique in suburbia, strides with dignity
solemnity, forbearance
     and he, nestled in the folds of 
middle-class greed and guilt, survives.
     He has made a place for himself
where two main roads cross. He paces
     and it is reassuring to see him there,
a familiar face
     that lets me know when I am home.
When he walks up and down in traffic
     with his little cardboard sign,
the world is right; the days when he doesn't come
     are worrisome --  does he know something
that we don't? Is something awful going to happen?
     Should I be absent, too?
Each time he says
     "Thank you, sir. God bless."
Does he share some sacred understanding with his benefactor?
     By reaching out, breaking taboos
could I also learn from him
     the importance of kindness?
The man, with his secret half-smile
     as much a part of us
as any teacher, doctor, or priest --
     he returns to us
some of what we give to him.
     What does the homeless man know?
Perhaps that he is worth much more
     than his paper cup filled with loose change.

c. 1997