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THE MAN HOLDING OUT A PAPER CUP

Driving east on Twenty-fifth

toward Lex, I expect to see

the gray bearded man

leaning on a cane,  dirty

baseball cap tipped up,

holding out a paper cup

with diner-blue designs.

I slow to a stop, roll down

the window, hand him

the customary change and ask,

“How ya’ doin’?”

“Not so good (his usual

reply); a friend is sick and my

kidneys hurt. Besides,”

he leans forward, shakes his head,

his eyes watery, “I’m having trouble

walking--almost didn’t

come down tonight.”

Cars back up behind me

waiting for the light. “It’s tough,”

he purses his lips, “getting older.”

The light changes.

“Sure is,” I nod. “God bless.”

Cars honk, I move on

imagining his run down room

with hot plate, sagging bed,

chipped Formica table, and a bathroom sink

gray with grime. His Social Security

pays most of the rent,

he begs the rest, goes to churches

and synagogues for food.

After that, I never

saw him again.