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Homeless in Harvard Square
Armed with my latte, I exit Au Bon Pain
and as I turn and head toward Brattle Street
I see against a wall a homeless man;
he has a small black puppy at his feet.
It's not that I've become inured to these
bedraggled souls camped out in Harvard Square
amid the pricey shops and eateries
while crowds pass by as if they weren't there;
and a dog, I think, might not mind homelessness:
would not feel stigmatized or paranoid,
nor would it love its master any less
because he is unwashed or unemployed--
Then why as I drop quarters in his cup,
do I feel so much sorrier for the pup?
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[center]<table bgcolor=white cellpadding=25 border=0><tr><td>The unexpected shift of focus at the end invites an immediate rereading, a fresh look at an old now-familiar urban character, the street person. That in itself is an achievement, that skillful shaking-up of the reader's tired response--exactly what poetry should do.
The speaker nails down a place, the city scene, with wonderful economy and a vocabulary that plumbs immediately the gulf between himself and the homeless man: "Armed with my latte," "inured," "bedraggled souls," "stigmatized," "paranoid"--we're in the lexicon of the educated Bostonian now, and his couplet says success--or the hope of it--a degree of confidence and comfort, decency and generosity. But also something less reassuring that he himself can't explain, and that he may be troubled by enough to do his own "rereading."
~Rhina
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