To the Man on Mansfield Street by Catherine Chandler
I have imagined countless reasons for
your sleeping on the hotel heating vent ---
a lengthy layoff, months of unpaid rent,
a gambling debt, divorce, a private war . .
Or was it something darker, maybe drink,
a need to fill your veins with heroin;
insanity, a secret or a sin
you wouldn’t whisper to a priest or shrink?
The morning traffic soon will wake you up;
you’ll check there’s nothing missing from your bag;
you’ll bind your blisters with a dirty rag
and later gauge the clinking in your cup.
I see the bright-eyed boy you surely were;
I see the tender infant, newly-born,
the Baby who, before the cross and thorn,
was given gold and frankincense and myrrh.
Unlike the offerings of wiser men,
all that I give you is a cigarette,
the time of day, some change, my mute regret
that begs to differ with the word, Amen.
