42nd Street

42nd Street

Hustle.
Everything a hustle.
Everybody a hustle.
Too many bodies
carrying personal armories.

Too many glares.
Too many stares.
The crowd is alive.
Every sound, a jive.
On it's face,
every moment, a race,
save he
and me.

He
Tall, gaunt,
dragged and bedraggled,
old and bearded,
dirty and sad,
carrying a small sign
with only three letters,
itself just a syllable
of a word
multi-syllabic:
Vet.

He
stoops to pick
a dogend,
a cigarette butt,
and looks around,
still ashamed.

Me
Leave my perch
against a wall
and walk up
with a smile,
reaching in my pocket
for one
hand-rolled cigarette,
and hand it to him.

He
Hesitation.
Then a smile,
accepting,
a wider smile
reaches his eyes.

Me
a smile
a shrug:
a wordless
sorry,
I have no more
to give.

He
nods
a wordless
it's OK,
thank you.

Me
a hand gesture:
Peace

He
sadness
reaches his eyes.

We
part,
lost again
in the crowd.