There’s a poem in the man
On the side of the road
In the freezing cold
His hood up
His hands in his hoodie
Anticipating the more fortunate
To aid him in repair

There’s a poem in the barista
With bloodshot eyes
Serving morning double shots of espresso
And French roast, light and sweet
Her shaky hands
Shake change from a tip jar

There’s a poem in the service dog
Leading the blind
With heavy paws and no bark
Trained to decipher black and white
His shiny coat felt with an alien touch
His shiny nose smelling for the next move

There’s a poem in me
Driving past a man on the side of the road
In the freezing cold
Like I’ve passed homeless men
On highway exits
Shaking their cups for change
Without eye contact
To be served by a barista with bloodshot eyes
And shaky hands
Leaving a tip and wondering

What poem lies in the man
With dead eyes