How many homeless men died last year
in our nation’s capital? Hungry, cold,
sleeping on sidewalk grates, warming
one side of their torsos, turning their bones
like a rotisserie roast to heat the opposite
shivering side. They huddle in doorways,
Salvation Army coats stuffed with discarded
Washington Post, scarves wrapped
around faces, only eyes darting at passers-by.
Who will give a coin, a dollar? Who will look
into their deep-set eyes tearing in the wind?
Perhaps they dream of suicide in the Potomac:
a blast of chill, a smothering of darkness
then warmth as they dream with worn tires,
dented beer cans, fish swimming blind.
Where do their bodies go, these cadavers
discovered by trash men or police?
Are there lists of the dead? Were they fathers
to someone? Do we burn their bones, scatter
their ashes in the sea? Where are their monuments?
Their statistics never make the headlines like one
thousand G.I.’s dead in Iraq. We weep for their bones;
we pray for their families. But what about our sidewalk battles?
We are all brothers under this flag, hoping, hoping
for God, perhaps a giant red spider, waiting, waiting
in a shaded glade for the last staggering survivor,
all to weave man again with a mite of dust,
a missing, stolen bone.
