plastic soda bottles, candy wrappers, aluminum cans—

flotsam after yesterday’s snowmelt.

When the light’s red, a man

(paper cup in hand, winter coat unbuttoned)

steps off the curb

into the sunlit lane between stopped cars.

Cradled in the crook of his arm

an improvised sign:

SEEKING HUMAN KINDNESS,

ALL MAJOR CREDIT CARDS ACCEPTED.

Inside the coffee shop,

a line of patrons stretching from counter to threshold

waiting for pastries and morning java. Just outside,

three anxious sparrows twittering beneath the bench

where a young man sleeps, stretched out,

duffel bag for a pillow,

face turned away from us passersby.

Beside him some Samaritan has left

a lunch sandwich,

neatly wrapped in clear plastic, homemade.

I descend into the subway station:

The ever cheerful Metro hawker greets me,

“Have a nice day.”

At the Dunkin’ Donuts kiosk

a dark- skinned man– West Indian?–

curly gray hair under

the knit cap he wears in all seasons,

cargo bags at his feet,

hunches over a Bible

open on a pedestal table, his “lectern.”

Some days he scribbles in a notebook—sermons?—

other times, lips moving, eyes turned inward,

he recites passages to himself.  Today, he lifts his head,

casts his gaze over the multitude,

hand extended, and, citing chapter and verse,

silently preaches to his congregation

entering, exiting through the turnstiles –

all of us sinners and no one in particular.

— Mark Pawlak