Twenty-somethings, homeless,
but with perfect fashion,
in muted greys and translucent lilacs
sit outside Union Square.
They have the coolest tattoos
and the coolest carboard signs,
all more transcendental and valuable
than the sidewalk they sleep on.
Some are tweaking, some are sleep,
some lean and have spit dribbling
from their burned lips as they drift
into a coma, like war heroes.
I want to give them a bowl
of my homemade vegan chili.
They can have cheese and sour cream,
depending how righteous they are.
I want to speak sweetly with their mothers
while they prune geraniums
along the cracked and faded sidewalk.
I wont smoke in their parent's garage
like an outcast uncle,
or have more than one beer with dinner.
The next day I’ll go back to the storefront
to explain everything I've learned, over
instant coffee and Entenmanns.
This time it's their turn to share wisdom
as 13th Street muscles from slumber,
achy under the weight of lost bodegas
and barbershops.
I’ve been told every homeless person needs a sign,
no matter what variation or breed.
Some write a new message every day, some stick to one,
but only a few don’t write anything at all.
“Not even gonna lie:
need money for bud.”
The pulse behind the sign renders words irrelevant.
The 500 year old Chinese woman captures the room
like a drunk teenager.
The oily scarecrow with a leather hat dances,
rattling his tin can.
Only occasionally will an assertive hungry hobo be satisfied
with a granola bar in place of anything less than Jackson.
“This is what it sounds like,
when the doves cry.”
Southern church bells ringing through dive bars filled with sinners.