at Triangle Park
beyond the bronze horses
under the trees, someone
is still sleeping.
Behind the library,
a threesome sits in the parking lot
facing each other,
a dog snuggled
on a lap.
In front of the Pam Miller Art Center,
a man is lying on the steel bench.
I don’t notice his friend
as I rush past,
trying not to notice.
Out of the corner of my eye,
I look for the usual cluster
standing by the library,
waiting for the door
Steel rebar and urban infill
attend our walk to the farmer’s market.
Two giant cranes hover above
still decked with Christmas trees,
In June, street folks mushroom.
wonderful! does it count as exercise if this makes me travel downtown if only in my head?!? …pretty sure it still counts. well done, poet!
We don’t look to give them privacy, to save them the embarrassment of being stared at, or to save ourselves the prick of conscience at not doing . . what? We don’t know do we? When I was young in the mountains, no one was homeless unless by absolute choice to be a hermit and even then there was a cave.
i’ve hung out there a time or two
maybe it was de mushrooms
Ahhhhhh, downtown…… fantastic poem!…. has everything you need, plus Christmas trees! ….could read this one again and again, finding different ‘presents’ each time!
I travel outside the U.S. and people mushroom like morel in most places I have gone. This is well-done and full of feelings…
Homelessness is as heavy a presence downtown as those cranes with their fake, endless Christmas cheer.