The Old Clochard Poem by David McLansky

Not hot with Love
But cold with Pity
Do those who shop
Step in the City.

Down on the pavement
On the subway grate,
I lift my cup
Inebriate;

You can tell a lot
By peoples legs,
Sprawled on the sidewalk,
Out to beg;

The ones least likely
To refuse
Are those who have
The most worn shoes.

Bundled in
My three warm coats,
Unwashed, unshaved,
A shaggy goat;

I am King
At base of thrown,
An old sick Lord
With servants gone;

I raise a swollen
Palsied hand
To those who pass
To help me stand;

A young lad stops
And hesitates
I rise on legs
That bend and quake;

He takes me by
My dirty hand
And pulls me up,
A full-grown man.