The Problem Is…

The problem is they have stories
of brokeness, of hope betrayed.
of striving until there is nothing left
but a smelly old jacket
and a hunger for anything
that will help them forget.

It is a frightening thing
to have coffee with one,
just one,
and listen.

For they will talk.
Words spill out like streams in spring,
stories which, even if half true,
sounds too familiar to your own,
except perhaps that you survived
through no grace of your own,

your broken parts not yet shattered,
just waiting, fearing, secretly afraid
that you could shatter as surely.

Easier to make them “them”
than to give them names
and know their story is closer to yours,
without the happy ending.

About this poem. 

A lot of my work is done in large cities and panhandlers abound. When I have time between my appointments, I often take one who approaches me to coffee or a meal. Yes, it assures that any money I spend goes to nourishment instead of alcohol or drugs but more than the nourishment, the people I share that cup of coffee with seem to appreciate simply having someone to talk to.

Once you’ve heard the stories, once you begin to look past the grime and nuisance and things you’d rather not know, and see the person, it’s hard to see “the poor’ in the same way. In fact, it’s likely impossible. At least it has been for me.

The same is true, I think, with any group we despise. “They” are not a group. They are people. With stories and struggles far closer to our own than we want to know.

Off my soapbox,

Tom