A different type of street. Some peoples’ gazes bounce off the beggars.
And I have not even learned to sit comfortably yet.
The homeless are all sitting around. It’s a sightseeing wonder. Everyone’s truthful, intelligent, surrounded by simplicity, a national wit, a comical cynicism, honesty, a unity of storytellers, inspired by the language of the streets, and of the soul.
Walking down this different type of street, a culture, a country occupied for everyone but me, the harsh air billows through my nose, and I only smell the cold. The cold has a scent. Warm winters dismay me. Warm houses disturb me, thinking me a lesser human who can’t survive without a modern heat unit. I come outside to join the city corner.
I want the biting chill, for the excuse to keep warm. On my own. Whiskers, Eugene, and Jo-Rod, the court royals of the corner of 16th St. and Mission, no fire allowed on the curb anymore, are huddled and scratching some part of their confused temples as I walk by waving, and I am suddenly embarrassed. Wishing I was one of the guys.
The essence of their hunger, brooding, romantically pulls me in. Attention comes to them from some of those like me on the outside, pulling goodwill and helplessness towards me like naivete’s charity. Mel, Lady, and Charity understand something about the shiftiness of the Universe and told me about it once. Afterwards, they try to insist that they can offer more, but I guessed I knew enough on my own to repeat a mistake.
Eugene always seems to have a new bicycle and some incredible goods for the guys on the corner. He is a popular businessman and funny without trying to be. His face is red and he loves coffee. He always manages to get me a sandwich no matter how hard he had to hustle.
Which reminds me: where is my family? A human being inside a home is differently reminded by a day’s priorities than a human being without a home, it seems. Getting to shelter, keeping to shelter, rightful ownership and busy. Busy. Passing by on the street only makes it tolerable if the intention to give is there, but you didn’t, you couldn’t look, but you did not have anything in your pockets that day, either. Otherwise, a stereotype is like a noise in the eyes and sharp glass in the heart. Which side judges most when there is a walk-by with the least connection?
And yet, fellowship follows me, as nightly companions, a love that is not demanding. Gathering us up together, discovering some kind of transformation within me, I am wandering on gratitude and the laughter of nighttime in a dusk community.
Empathy is Poetry 