He had lost half his nose,
the right side of his face
marred by the streets.

His eye on that side
bloodshot.  Barely here,
laid out across a driveway—

Concrete and asphalt his
best friends, along with
the devil alcohol…

Near naked, shoeless,
writhing on the ground for
traffic to finish off,

I asked him if he needed
help… He groggily said “yes,”
I called 911, waited, then

watched as paramedics
kindly carted him away for
a short or final rest, who

can say?  He was not really
another man, he was me.

He was a man, like me.  He
could have been me, a
long-lost brother.

He bled red like me, a thin
line of it glowing where his
nose used to be whole.

A red eye like mine, skin
and sweat… Was he ever in
a sandbox at school?

Branded homeless by the suits,
a “problem” by them and
others, when really…

He’s just a man like you
with a disease.  One man,
barely breathing, hoping

for something good, some
moment of light before
the end to signify forever.

We are here, equal.  None
better than another.  This
man was me.  You…

Our job to love him as
we love ourselves, remember?