In the wide café, where I sat and I sipped,
I saw a man come in not at all like other men.
No different was his shape. You would have known
him as a man, whenever seen.
But he was dressed in rags. Had a lean look
about him, as if he were one more day
to starvation, could have used a good, clean meal.
I watched him come into the café, in the center city,
hand over crinkled bills for a cup of warmth.
Out the corner of my eye as I read, I watched
him sit at a table, a little away.
He sipped his coffee, soft and slow.
Then, I watched him still as he went
up to where they kept the milk
and poured himself a cup of cream.
He returned to his seat. No hint of shame.
No one he turned to look at, head down.
Met no one’s eyes, just back to his seat,
sipped his cream in slow gulps.
A while, then, I watched (from the corner
of my staring eye) as once again he got a cup of cream.
Had I seen him on the street before?
Familiar, his face. Had I passed by him
on the city sidewalks, sometime, paying only
scant attention to those without firm places to live
as I went to the beach, or the store?
I said nothing, just watched the man, sucking life
from the tall carafe of cream.
Who would I have been if I had complained?
I turned back to my cup of coffee, enjoyed its dark warmth.
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