Attempts Become Gestures

[second version]

the man wearing a thin sweatshirt

and no hat stands at an uncovered

bus stop in freezing rain. he isn't me.

he's trying to light a cigarette. his

attempt becomes a gesture--

ludicrous but noble, less than

tragic but not bad at all.

he's inside whatever being alive

is for him, and i'm inside what

being alive is to me. i see him

from a warm place out of the weather.

if i were like jesus i'd go to the

man and perform a miracle--

like getting that cigarette lit,

or giving him money,

or giving him my parka, or

embracing him. he might

like all of that. except for

the embrace. he might

bite my nose off for that.

i don't do any of these things,

because it's easier not to,

and it's acceptable that i

think i'm not his keeper.

at moments like these, i

think of Bukowski,

who--i gather from his

words, i never knew

the man--thought like

jesus sometimes, i mean

with a similar toughness.

tough on everybody--

including, let's say especially,

the reflective, ignoble fuckers in

warm parkas out of the

weather.