I know it’s not kind for the fortunate to talk about the homeless--

especially when rain pisses cold night early
like a dead drunk on the sidewalk,
filling ditches with frigid water
pooled in ankledeep depressions
unnoticed ‘til rain pisses
gutters down asphalt
heaped in middlestreet impressions.

Heaped against curbstones
fed by asphalt,
the heaps of middlestreet form
blackpool gutters
that shine like sun can’t
off daytime things
matted by diffusion.

On the surface of the blackpools,
the greenlights and redlights
and yellow streaks ripple
like dreamtime falling out of phase
with the walking rhythm of cold-soaked sneakers
squashing ‘long the greenline
ripples of a redlight
nighttime.
Soaked in piss and inconsiderate snow,
it melts before it’s supposed to.

He’s an obvious imbecile,
now handicapped or special. *(exclude?)
A sweetness caps his voice
like the accent of spice
in a cigarette that got wet
then dried then smoked once fished
from under a passenger seat
like a nice surprise—
like a tipped hat
after hello and a brief discussion
of snow and the rain it followed
and whether or not this snow is the symptom
of a cold front;
gone tomorrow,
here today.

He wanted money
to get through the night.

(He had no nurses to give him
what he needed to get through the night)

I gave him cigarettes and useless sentiment instead.

“You look soaked to the bone.
I hope you have someplace to get dry.”

He said,
“Don't worry.
It’s not the rain that gets to me.
It’s this snow.”