The man on Hawthorne street
in dirty clothes, red back pack &
arms up like a prickly pear
staggers into oncoming traffic.
Cars & a bus nearly hit him.
He crosses the street as people stare & smirk.
I look into his eyes that are glazed over &
say "sit down. we're worried about you."
My friend calls for help on the pay phone that is far away,
The thirty year old man seems lost & sad.
I ask, "what's your name?"
but he doesn't remember.
Perhaps he feels as if his skin is sharp & cannot be touched.
We try to sooth him but he falls to the sidewalk &
I try to keep his head from cracking open,
hold his hand saying, "help is on the way."
A group of well dressed people walk by.
I ask them to call for help with their cell phone,
they pass by in disgust as
if to get involved they might feel
a prick of something.

The man stinks & is dirty,
I hold his hand as he closes his eyes &
relaxes some as if this is his first comfort.
Police arrive & smirk & tell me to leave,
as they can't stand to feel compassion for
something so ugly.