The Drifter Poem by Shannon Chapel

He sits on the sidewalk with his hand out.
He smiles.
His hands are wrinkled and dirty.
So are his clothes.
He’s searching for a friendly face.
He’s hoping that someone will notice him.
People walk past without a second glance.
Most people walk past without a first glance.
Mothers pull their children away from him as they walk by.
I wonder where his mother is?
“Please…” he says,
but she looks the other way.
He stands.
Traffic is stopped at a red light.
He shuffles over to a nearby car and taps on the window.
People begin to honk.
Cars speed away from him.
Watch out!
I rush to help.
“Don’t encourage him, ” a passerby says.
I place my hand on the drifter’s sleeve.
“Let me help you, ” I say.
He looks up at me, this old man.
He has tears in his eyes.
“God bless you, child, ” he says.
This is someone’s son.
This could be someone’s husband.
This could be someone’s dad.
What if this were my dad?
I buy him lunch and a hot cup of coffee.
He thanks me and goes on his way.
I head back to the hotel.
I wonder where he’ll sleep tonight?
The next morning I get up early to catch my plane.
He sits on the sidewalk with his hand out.
He smiles.
His hands are wrinkled and dirty.
So are his clothes.
He’s searching for a friendly face.
He’s hoping that someone will notice him.

(12/4/05)