James by Rob Dyer

the stench was of truth
rancid realities that held him there
holding translucent ignorance
for those passing

sure, they only threw pennies,
he collected each
his diminished self reflected
in the dank gutter
flowing with life

obscene to many, perfect sense
is all he knew

I cashed my last check
hurried to invite him to more
needing to relieve my uselessness

as Bourbon Street assaulted me,
I turned to avoid uniformed trouble
reaching in last years denim
ready to make my life better
I held in my tired teen hands
an offering he would never forget
only to find a sign

his name was James, apparently
for the cardboard wreath
cut in to floral shapes
said as much
R.I.P. James
December 25, 1971

I never found the words
until now
but he denied me the chance
to forgive myself for being
more than I thought he was

thank you, James