My Vagabond Poem by Sarah Sisson

I stumble out of a down town loft.
The city streets look so different at
dawn. So here he comes, the rose man.

A vagabond he is. He is here all night and
day for it is this street that is his home.
Roses he has to sell. This man knows

me by name but I know not his.
I see him every night.
And on occasion a morning such as today.
He is quite tattered. His skin gray and

in the crispness of the morning he
offers me a rose, on his dime. I laugh
and say “darling, don't you know I'm allergic? ”
We share a bit of morning joy and move on.

Copyright 01-03-2009 ©® Sarah Sisson