“I’m not sure if night is ending or day is beginning.  What time is it?” She asked as she opened the door.

“Its about 2:30” I answered.

She was pacing about slightly bobbing her head as she spoke.

“We're sorry to disturb you beloved.  We're conducting a homeless census. May we ask you some questions?”

“I don’t want to be put away”  she said.  “I have to be outside.”

“We’re not here to hurt you.  We’re here to help.”

"Where do you come from?" Ally asked.

She didn't remember where she was from and was uncertain why it mattered.

She knew she wanted to leave Paterson but was unsure about where she wanted to go.

She kept her eye on the McDonald’s across Market Street.  

"As long as the light is on, I know its still nighttime and I'll have a place to go if the cops kick me out of here."

Here, was this evenings lodging in an ATM vestibule.  

"I can also get something to eat when I'm hungry."

"What time is it?"

"Its about 2:30."    

She earnestly wants to know what time it is.  

"I don't want the people going to work in the morning seeing me sleeping here." she said, "It's embarrassing."

Her papers were scattered on the floor.

She had one shoe on and one shoe off.  A white sock gloved an indeterminate number of other sock layers warming her shoe-less left foot, sufficient protection from the balmy mist of this late January evening.   The orphaned shoe lay on its side in the corner of the Wells Fargo foyer.

White, black and yellow plastic grocery bags filled with the content of her worldly possessions lay atop the shelf housing bank deposit slips neatly stacked in cubbyholes.

A woolen hat circled her head.  Her tiny face shone through the gray skull cap tightly tied under her soft chin.

She looked to be in her 50’s.  She spoke in a pale uneven tempo with a quiet anxious voice.  Her eyes were clear.  Her pursed mouth bracketed by a trinity of long chocolate crescent winkles. The sounds floating from her mouth were gently angelic and the kindness of a tender smile was filled with demure submissiveness.

She swaddled herself in multiple layers of coats and trousers bulking up a waif like frame.  Her outermost cloak, a gray trench coat was secured with a tightly wrapped knotted cloth belt.  The coat was thoroughly soiled by a life of sleeping rough in the urban outback.  The fabric boasted a consistency worthy of an Abercrombie and Fitch oil finished coat.  The bulky layers rounded the frame of her shoulders.  She resembled a small granite headstone.

"Whats your name?" I asked.  She was reluctant to tell us.  “I don’t like my name”.

We gently coaxed her.

“Carmen” she whispered.

“That's a beautiful name.  Its the name of the most beautiful operas ever written.”

“I know.  I’m gonna change my name someday.” she answered.  “I never liked it.”

Ally finished taking the survey, leaving more questions unresolved than answered.  

We gave Carmen a blanket, gloves, a hat.  Some hot cocoa, two sandwiches and a chocolate bar. We implored her to visit our pantry when it opened in the morning for cloths, referrals and food.  She was very grateful; but I don’t think she’ll ever make her way there.

I gave her my phone number; but I don’t think she’ll call.

“You are not forgotten beloved.  You are deeply loved.  Please remember that.” I said cupping her calloused hands within my palms.

“I know” the dainty caged bird cooed with a submissive smile.  

“What time is it?”

As we left Carmen, I wondered how to count a person wishing to remain invisible.

Music Selection: Bizet’s Carmen, Habanera

Maya Angelou: I Know Why a Caged Bird Sings

Paterson
1/30/13
jbm

Three years have gone by.
A little over one thousand days
And it’s been thirty-six months.
I don’t know why I’m still counting
Each dawn that passes by.
I don't know why you haven’t called
To tell me that you miss me
And that you want me back.
But I do know that slowly the nights add up
And soon it will be forty-eight months
One thousand four hundred sixty days.
It’ll be four years
And I will still be wondering why
We haven’t spoken.

I would have asked you to sit with me,
But the truth is I prefer my own company.
It's certainly no reflection on the faux concern you tend to display
For the bags under my eyes
Delivered with as much subtlety as a musical theater major
Hinting at their next performance.
All while your face is glazed over checking your updates.
Mentally and physically in another world.
Yet politely trying.
I spent the past four hours talking to people
But not seeing them.
My sprained ankle suffocating inside my no slip shoes
Bending and breaking under the pressure of each turn and step
Right now all I want to do is rest it and watch people
While the October breeze blows my hair over my face.
So sorry you didn't get the invite.
But maybe next time.

Your fingers sift through my hair
Like wind drifts through a meadow.
You speak like the sparrow calls in the distance
And your touch is soft as a butterfly wing.
You smell sweet like after the rain
But it is your breaths that take mine away.

And Jane held the butterfly
in the palms of her hands
gently opening up
a mere gap
so that you could glimpse it

it tickles
she said
and she laughed
and that aspect of her

thrilled you
the way she held
her head to one side
her eyes in wonderment

of the captured butterfly
her soft hands
as if she were caressing
the head of a first born

see?
she said
see its beautiful colouring
and you glimpsed

the bright colours
it's a Peacock butterfly
she said
and she stood there

on the narrow road
to Diddling Church
in the grey dress
with yellow flowers

and the muddy shoes
and white socks
her hands opening
and you both watched

as the butterfly
fluttered off
across the hedgerow
out of sight

one of God's treasures
my father calls them
she said
still gazing where

the butterfly had been
a butterfly was a butterfly
to you
fresh from London

unused to the country fare
the clean air
the wide expanse of space
did you see many

butterflies in London?
she asked
guess so
you said

can't say I paid them
much mind
you are funny
she said

all this beauty
and it doesn't strike you?  
you stared at her
standing there

her eyes wide open
her hands gesturing
as if to include
all about her

her dark hair
neatly brushed
her dark eyes
focusing on you

getting to me
each time I'm with you
and you explain things
you said

she smiled
and o that
really held you
in a sway that smile

that spread of lips
come on
she said
let's go look

at the gravestones
in the church yard
and so you followed her
up the narrow road

feeling the warm sun
of the Saturday afternoon
wanting to hold her hand
feel her fingers

in yours
sense the smoothness
feel her pulse of life
and you entered

through the wooden gate
along the stones
which made a path
the tombstones

high and low
chiselled names and dates
she stood by the church wall
and stared at the

beyond the hedge
you stood next to her
and touched her hand
with yours

your fingers touching
warm
soft
and she looked at you

and said
you can kiss me
if you like
and stood there waiting

and you unsure
wanting to but shy
not wanting
to mess things

or get it wrong
but you kissed her cheek
and then her lips
holding her

feeling her arms
about you
and you sensed
her waist slim

your fingers touching
and lips to lips
o God
you mused

confused
moved apart
she smiling
you uncertain

and she said
my mother likes you
says you're different
from the local boys

something that sets
you apart
you frowned
and said

am I?
kiss good
she said
not greedy

or too passionate
or too sensuous
but like holding
that butterfly just now

something tickled
inside me
she said
you gazed

into her dark eyes
as a Peacock
butterfly
fluttered overhead.

In the 2nd grade
a puppy love
crush on the
teacher steeped
deep in me

to my delight
her clear eyes
recognized the
promise of a
chubby boy
in all of his
quaint simplicity

her gentle
voice, friendly
and firm, filled
with caring instruction

the giddy class
attuned to her fresh
brunette bouffant, bunned
and perfectly coiffed,
speaking style and
youthful whimsy,
not a strand of hair
out of place

her svelte figure
flowed through
classroom isles
filling the space
with scented graces
of prescient carnations

that afternoon she
was abruptly called
from the class

when she returned
our beautiful princess
was sobbing

she concealed her face
then turned her back
on the class, crying
in a corner to dismayed
blushing blackboards

regaining composure
she turned
exposing her tear
stained cheeks
and dissheveled hair
to an unsettled class

“the President
hurt his back” she
announced.  “He’s
in the hospital.”

Whoa… I thought,
the President hurt
his back.  That's
terrible I surmised.

our beloved teacher
dismissed us
and resumed her
tearful grief

when I arrived home
my mother was
sitting on the bed
weeping.  “President
Kennedy is dead”
she blared.

my mother’s rumpled
housecoat and
tousled hair flattered
her flowing tears and
anguished sobs.

the tears of women
marked the end
of many puppy loves that day


Bob Marley & The Wailers
No Woman No Cry

Oakland
10/15/13
jbm