If I were one of my poems,
I’d be that homeless person you step over
to get someplace more important –
avoiding all eye contact
Of no fixed address
Shaky, illegible handwriting
on an application
for a job someone else got
Loonies and toonies clinking in a tin cup
that I picked up along the riverbank
in one of those needle-strewn places
that only people like me know about
Maybe the shelter has a bed tonight,
though I’d have to be out at 7
Wish I could be the guy on the corner who cleans windshields
Bet he’s got it made