Sat with him in his bus shelter, his fixed address
for several months and one day asked him
did he care for fruit, as in I’d buy it for him,
“Selectively,” was his answer.
“How long living like this,” I asked and he,
“eighteen years, chose it to be free.”
Of people, duty, cares, I guessed.
Shopping cart swollen with all he’d need
for warmth and inclement weather.
An A&W supper, cart outside, waiting for night,
his bus shelter bench for a bed. He’s gone.
Empty shelter one day.
I lost him.
Many more like him, on concrete islands
where posted signs say panhandling’s illegal.
Handwritten cardboard invitations to give,
and sometimes I do, selectively.
His bike in the bush, he walks bent at the waist,
I’ve watched. he is clearly disabled, crippled,
walking or riding with effort, and I give to him.
Another with prosthetic leg needs help.
Another is suspect with new backpack and shoes,
and cell phone in hand and smokes.
Only a few gals in this collection of homeless,
all are not vagrant, or tramps or bums,
but alone, unaided, displaced, poor and needy.
© Ron Unruh, June 2019
Comment: The narrative free verse says it all except for my conviction that our elected officers and public funded agencies are failing a segment of society that yes, may be addicted to substances and yes, may not be employable, but who are still persons as my title states, and are deserving of a societal compassion and serious help, that does not insult them but rather respects them by provisions of shelter and clothing and foods. Instead my observation has been that these people living in tents or under tarps or cardboard get regularly rousted by police and city bylaw enforcers. We spend huge amounts of public money on superfluous things when we could make miserable existences somewhat more bearable.
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