THE HOMELESS BORE ME
You encourage failure when you throw dimes in bums’ cups.
Worth millions and you feel good about a pretense
Dimes on the dollar.
There is blood on your collar,
Pieces of diminutive generosity.
I am what tramps need –
The glance-in-the-other-direction of a middle class
Leisurely indifferent realist.
I modeled for the popular ad on NY subways monogramed
“A bum may be without a home but is not without help.”
But the help should be from an institution
Not from a hand out on the train.
New York City is not Rome.
I don’t want to see it decline or fall like London Bridges.
I see bums sh**ing at bus stops and I wonder what happened
To the grandeur that was New York?
The homeless bore me because of the clichéd reactions to them.
The homey bore me.
I am bored.
Let’s be real not an imitation of love when
We are selfish.
I’d like to take the coins from the bums’ tin cups and throw
Them in the sewer.
But I am sickened by liberal false sympathy and the little
They give like plastic tokens without subways.
So I don’t care about bums.
And what good does all your caring do to the lost lives
On the nameless corners.
What do you do that you dare or don’t dare to do anything?
As much as I hate bums I hate the liberals who cater
To their self-destruction,
The goody-goodies who pretend to ice skate
As they slide on puddles of urine.
When I used to have a Rolls Royce I’d chat to the homeless
On corners and they didn’t resent my wealth
Because they knew that I was simpatico.
I was one with their humanity despite
The wealth I later lost.
I don’t give but I am given the love of the world
And the kindness of the empty-handed.
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