Canto 9
Which circle of hell caters to homeless
like one who last night slept in the
driveway
outside my window, pissed
my fence before folding his tarp qua
bed, shouldered his plastic garbage bag
—
black on black except for a flame
scarf ringing his neck. Yes, I watched
snug
behind drapes in my propane-warmed
doublewide
as he gathered his rags
close, started down the asphalt grade
toward
morning, whatever morning brings
to someone in his situation. Yes, this
is my delayed
sympathy for his situation now that
I’ve 911ed
& texted the grayed-out photo
I snapped through the dining room
window —
it could be the retreating back of
anyone, no
fringe of signature scarf, no face
to ID in a lineup. No,
he’s traveling to some designated
space —
its devils, torments, grace.
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