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There’s a homeless man who sits outside of the Food Emporium on my block.
He used to have dreadlocks. He cut them off. Cropped his hair real close.
He looks more professional that way.
He sits with his bags of bottles and cans that he dug out of the trash can,
Coffee cup half-full of coins or sometimes even coffee,
Mumbling jumbles of words that don’t make sense to no one.
He’s got a penny in his mind for every dime he’s ever seen.
He ain’t mean, no, he just don’t know where he’s been.
And he’s got dark brown eyes and dark brown skin, lived-in cargo pants,
Stained t-shirt, eyes that dance.
He’s got style, man.
He’s got a penny in his mind for every dime he’s ever held in the palm of his hand.
Sometimes he holds the paper,
But I never seen him read it.
So I read for him.
Every morning I open the paper to the corrections page.
In black-and-white ink it says,
“We’re sorry for any confusion.
No one died today,
They were only born again.”