Two Things

Two Things

He stands some yards removed from the grocery store’s
Whishing door. From his endless supply,
He offers a nod and a smile to every face
Who passes him, whispering a greeting if

He is not absorbed in purring pulses of
A mountain song. He sings the ancient tunes
His papaw taught him, keening into the parking
Lot’s heavy air, refusing to let

The past be past, and calling to the bloodlines
Of shoppers and clerks and deliverymen in their rushings.
The two things at his shoes are still and silent,
Sentries of need, the tattered cap with its

Few coins and bills, and the elderly feist,
Curled on her towel and watching her precious friend’s
Face. It’s not even ten of the morning clock
But a glance down at the cap, in

Between verse and refrain, tells him he
Already has more than six dollars, sufficient
Beyond the day, and he never asks
For more than he needs: a can of vyeenies

And a pack of crackers and he’ll fill
His water bottle somewhere for free, and the
One scant meal is all he needs, along with
Two tins of food for the girl on the towel.

And best to be off before the strutting little
Manager, a martinet with a
Horseshoe-shaped scar on his bristling
Scalp stalks out to glare and point. They’ll sleep

In a field, dog and man, because
It all went away some years before
And it won’t return until Paradise
Calls, and the shoppers will pass, some

Smiling at his music, some concealing
Their eyes from a beggar and a filthy
Cur, few ever sparing a thought
Of them afterwards. So he reaches for the

Two things, pockets the money and slaps
The cap onto his cottony hair, tugs
The dog alongside him, and enters the store
To limp between the aisles for daily bread.

~ S.K. Orr