HOMELESS

You’re always alone, I notice,

said the beggar from in the alleyway.

I see you in this alley weekly,

carrying that same dumb notebook.

What’s the matter, you dumb or something?

He asked of her, searching for an explanation,

from the tepid smile that lingered,

loosely on her closed, brown lips.

Listen. . . .

I need a cigarette,

That merchant no sell me,

I crave it; it’s so cold here,

In this dumb city,

And I ain’t got no money.

Reaching into her back pocket,

For some change and crumpled dollar bills,

Willing to indulge him,

In his addiction to the smoke – she,

A ladybug that was flung into the gutters

after the rainfall. 

Gracias, gracias, senorita, he mumbled,

Humbled by her split-second generosity.

The smile that played on her lips,

Quickly disappeared, transforming into

The hazy self-pity, that grew

Like a sour pomelo, dangling precariously

on the tip of a tree bough. 

When he took the camel lights from her fingers,

Bowed, and walked briskly away,

Into the Mission District throng,

She lingered alone on the sidewalk,

Gazing quietly after his departing figure.

© Copyright Camille Tuason Mata (2008)San Francisco, California