Scarcity In the Neighborhoodfor Michael

by Ellen Woods
 
 I see you as I walk from my apartment near
Temescal Alley   shops that make up 
what has become home to you for years
 
you lie on the sidewalk next to Shoe 
Palace   gazing up   wrapped in a blue sleeping bag   
your shoes   beside you   worn   untied 
 
your hands rest on your chest    fingers beat out rhythm
as if playing saxophone   lost in revery 
lined face sunburned by years outside belies your age
 
do you have family?   case manager who gives
you meds?   SSI check?   bed at a shelter?
board and care you leave to come here?
 
you crawl out of the sleep sack   stand up   stretch
lift a grey hoody to your chest   struggle to put your arms and 
head through openings   repeat with sweater 
 
you make eye contact with me as I get in my car
I hold the connection    fight the urge to look down
you sway   shadow-box   demons deride you
 
mutter about the devil   pull out a joint   
light   inhale   pace back and forth
wriggle back in your blue bag   bury your head 
 
people pass by    leave unsolicited offerings   dollar bills   
pizza   piece of cheesecake   blanket   pillow 
can’t bear your scarcity   afraid of our own
 
weeks in December you were gone     neighbors
left coats   hats    scarfs   even shoes in your spot
despairing   helpless   fearing your fate
 
you came back New Year’s Day   dressed in fitted brown
slacks    a pressed shirt   shiny brown leather shoes
clean hair cut short   sat at outdoor café    sipping a drink
 
I said hello   you nodded   looked away   tapped your fingers
you were   compliant   medicated   functioning   
within the week you return   barefoot   claim your site on the sidewalk