When the two homeless men—
one red sleeping bag, one green—fled
from the cave-like encampment
under the footbridge downtown, all they left
was a small beat-up frying pan collecting rain,
a makeshift precipitation gauge
they were tired of reading. 

          They probably disappeared
in the night. Less hassle invited that way,
fewer eyes averted. 

          Who are you, then?
the cluttered bowl of the city prods
as I stand on the ridge, hesitant, torn,
every good deed prone
to turn in on itself
and knot up the flow
of best intention. I bought you
hot coffee and a roll once, but you
were gone when I got back.
Another time, resentment.

          Blocks later, when the wren inside
kept crashing its head into what it thought
was a way out but was really a closed glass door,
I swept that door open in a grand gesture, proud
of myself. 

          But it would not leave the little house
built around the steps leading up
from underground parking even though
another man with no known address tried to help,
coaxing, “Fly, birdie, fly!” from where he sprawled,
half a flight down, on the concrete landing, diagonal
in order to fit, all his worldly possessions stuffed
in a plastic garbage bag. 

          I didn’t know what to do
so I let it shut. The red lit-up sign above
not sure either what good it did
to keep naively saying EXIT. 

Jan Carroll would like to encourage involvement with one of the many local organizations working to help those experiencing homelessness.