Giving Money Away

I look into myself,
Hover over the streets that
Channel bloodtraffic into the
Metropolis that is my heart.
I am busy,
Platelet people pulse through my urban veins.
But what is this scene here,
This street corner that moves in slow motion,
While the entire population
Slides past in a pounding stream?
What is it that allows
This time suspension,
That displays a minute me
Clearly disregarding the city?
What is it?
Perhaps it’s because I just said
a too quick goodbye to my parents
after their very first visit in four years;
Maybe it’s the bus they are on,
Soon to be absorbed in the flowing bloodtraffic.
Is it because I lost my green
Nepalese wool scarf, worth hundreds of dollars
Moments ago, that it is carried
Closer and closer to digestion?
Or is it because my Mom tried to give me
her burgundy scarf in a last attempt to connect?
Perhaps it’s because I turned her down.
Perhaps what it is is the sun
emerging from among the tall buildings,
my body temperature getting cooler.
Perhaps it’s the cold that makes me put my gloves on,
makes me notice the absence of my scarf more sharply.
Perhaps it’s because you know therapy is around the corner
Perhaps it’s the smell of the early morning street:
car exhaust, market fish down the street
Perhaps it’s because I have already given a street man a cigarette.

At any rate, I find myself giving money
to the old man I find on the very next corner.
I saw him from across the street as I lit my cigarette,
He looks like a miniature grandfather doll
I noted his small body,
His tweed hat,
The wool blazer with suede patches at the elbows,
His grimy SBUX cup, his sign that I didn’t read (I can guess what it says)
And I thought I was going to walk on by,
But suddenly I am reaching into my pocket,
It’s thoughtless,
It’s automatic,
I am grinning,
I look at the grimy cup,
I don’t want him to notice me,
I am smiling so big
Four quarters
I talk as if to a child:
Here you are sweetheart.
He speaks pleasantly in return,
His voice belonging to a man who has held his grandchildren on his knees,
And when he realizes how much I have given him
(a trifle really)
he exclaims
“Thank you very much ma’am!”
You are more than welcome.
It’s true.
I feel like I am flying down the street
My cigarette is delicious
I am thinking about coffee,
Reading about poetry.
I am thinking about my parents on the bus,
And Tim in boot camp,
And I am riding on the bus
And I am so tired
I look at his corner, and he is not there,
He has disappeared:
Is he eating breakfast,
Having a cup of coffee
In a new cup?
My eyes are heavy,
They are stinging.
Across the aisle is an older woman,
Immaculately dressed in black
With impossibly big hair
Her make-up is too shiny
I wonder,
Would she give money?
I doubt it.
Why am I so suspicious?
24-hours later I feel empty and ungenerous.

If a poem about a lost scarf could wrap the cold throat of this old man,
I could lose poems and scarves all over the city.

If a poem about coffee could ease the cold,
I would teach the people on the street to choose the right words.

If a poem about memory could re-unite families,
I would give poems to the grandparents that wonder the streets lonely on Christmas.

If a poem about pocket-change could be redeemed for a hot meal,
I could drop them in hats, hands, and cups.

If a poem about the morning could shine through my suspicions,
I would cover myself with them
And give them to everyone.

But poems do none of these things.
Therefore I fly with the feeling of giving,
Knowing sometimes that poems are enough.
Feel how easy it is to give,
Feel how easy it is to recognize your family in the streets.