A man stands on a corner
wearing a baseball hat
holding a canoe paddle with a hole.
in its blade. His eyes follow passing
cars and beg for a night of warmth
or a dollar bill for his pocket.

He stands for an hour, ripped clothes,
sneakers with no soles, but full of soul,
with no reaction from passerbys,
as he slides into that next corner
during afternoon rush hour,
when drivers are hungry
for their homes and take no notice of a man
who has had none for maybe five years now,
ever since college let him go.

Where did he get this paddle
and what does it stand for in his world
where leisure time spares itself,
and streets are where he lays his head
beneath our bridges and inside worn tents,
where he empties his bowels of whatever scraps
a nice person may by chance share
on their way nowhere on another gloomy day?