In front of the bank building
after six o’clock the gathering 
of the bag people begins

In cold weather they huddle
around newspapers
when it is freezing they get
cardboard boxes

Someone said they are all rich eccentrics
Someone is        of course       crazy

The man and his buddy moved
to the truck port
in the adjoining building
most early evenings he visits
his neighbors awaiting
the return of his friend
from points unknown to me
they seem to be a spontaneous
combustion these night people
they evaporate during the light of day
only to emerge at evening glow
as if they had never been away

I am told there are people
who live underground
in the layer between the subways
and the pipes that run them
they have harnessed the steam
to heat their corner
and cook their food
though there is no electricity
making them effectively      moles

The twentieth century has seen
     two big wars and two small ones
     the automobile and the SST
     telephones and satellites in the sky
     man on the moon and spacecraft on Jupiter
How odd to also see the people
of New York City living
in the doorways of public buildings
as if this is an emerging nation
though of course it is

Look at the old woman
who sits on 57th Street and 8th Avenue
selling pencils
I don’t know where she spends the night
she sits summer and winter
snow or rain humming
some white religious song
she must weigh over 250 pounds
the flesh on her legs has stretched
like a petite pair of stockings
onto a medium frame
beyond its ability to fit
there are tears and holes
of various purples in her legs
things and stuff ooze from them
drying and running again
there is never         though         a smell
she does not ask you to buy
a pencil nor will her eyes
condemn your health
it’s easy to walk by her
unlike the man in front
of Tiffany’s she holds her pencils
near her knee
you take or not
depending upon your writing needs

He on the other hand is blind and walking
his german shepherd dog
his sign says THERE
BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD
GOES YOU and there is a long
explanation of his condition
It’s rather easy for the Tiffany shopper
to see his condition
     he is Black

Uptown on 125th Street is an old blind Black woman
she is out only in good
     weather and clothes
her house is probably spotless
as southern ladies are wont to keep house
and her wig is always on straight
     You got something for me, she called
     What do you want, I asked
     What’s yo name? I know yo family
     No, you don’t, I said laughing          You don’t know
          anything about me
     You that Eyetalian poet ain’t you? I know yo voice. I seen
          you on television
I peered closely into her eyes
     You didn’t see me or you’d know I’m black
     Let me feel yo hair        if you Black          Hold down yo head
I did and she did
     Got something for me, she laughed
     You felt my hair        that’s good luck
     Good luck is money, chile        she said
     Good luck is money