Winter Stranger
Where are the snows of last week-end?
The sun shines on that distant range
without diminishing its glory.
Shadows cluster round the dreck
that didn’t melt away when sidewalks
dried - gutters stay ice-clogged.
Sun each day promises warmth yet
bright morning fades, noon’s not high,
afternoon short, sunset early, dark.
The homeless, pitched in their camp
near the freeway din by the iced
slope the weather beats on, lie low.
The length of our most genteel street
is traversed by its evening traffic -
dogs with their humans, those who work late.
Under a light a young couple grapples
in slow motion, not going anywhere
but signaling Soon we must part.
To our surprise, there looms a great
lumbering heavy-laden tramp,
as if just back from Siberia.
A dark bedroll makes him seven feet
tall, other clobber rounds him out.
He’s used to this, year round, but winter?
My dog bristles - I take a sharp
detour. Our eyes don’t meet. Would
he expect something from me? ‘Good-day’?
‘Have a good evening’? Charity?
Proof he doesn’t scare me? (I wouldn’t
call police - Salvation Army, maybe.)
He may or may not know where he’ll
unroll his pack and lie down tonight.
Dog and I suffer no such doubt.
He sees our houses’ bright lit trees, porches
and windows, some hung with red stockings.
Keep the children from view while he passes -
you wouldn’t want them to see him.
He has nothing for them in his sack.
You mightn’t want him to see them.
One last glimpse - our formidable
stranger mid-street stooping as if
for something dropped there, edible.
Max Richards
Seattle, December 2014
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