Untouchable Poem by Caroline Misner

This is why I hate the city—
it’s not the clangor of the traffic
that chime the streets until they pulse;
it’s not the gaudy neon signs,
their blood balls like eyes and stray
little panthers, that hock
everything from designer clothes
to greasy food;
it’s not the crowds that stream
like corpuscles along
the narrow avenues.
It’s you.

I didn’t know anyone could sleep
sitting up like that,
without even a wall to support
your humped back. Legs splayed
across the atlas of the cracked sidewalk.
Your shoes look new.
The passer-by are oblivious to you.

There’s an angel that hovers over
your head, that tolls and cries:
“Don’t touch! This one
is a poisoned soul.”

No one expects anything of you,
unconscious with your cup of loonies
glimmering in your lap, that you rattle
as though you need to sing for your supper
or your next bender.

I feel I must reach out and touch
you, despite the cherub’s admonition,
just to know how you feel,
to reassemble myself.
You are here.
You are real.