this man
who surfaces
at rush hour
to homeward
bound cars 

tucked in a
once-tan jacket
grey beard
(the kind Caribbean
economists wear)

walking in a side waddle
bad feet, wrong shoes

propelling into the street
when lights change
to stop cars
knock on windows

car after car after car

as drivers honk, afraid
to advance, to hit
a homeless man
in downtown LA

who am I to say

this man
does not have a right 
to step in front of
push his hand too close to
Lexus indecision

or to fling away
the bottle of water
a striped-shirt-and-tie
pushes at him on
a 100-degree day

or to curse as a
careless hand
drops a coin from
her Acura window
and lurches

as he bends down

– Lynda V. E. Crawford