. . . gold, frankincense and myrrh

A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. (Robert Frost)

A homeless person sleeps on a steaming vent on York St. in downtown Toronto.

(nationalpost.com)

To the Man on Mansfield Street

      by Catherine Chandler

I have imagined countless reasons for

your sleeping on the hotel heating vent ---

a lengthy layoff, months of unpaid rent,

a gambling debt, divorce, a private war . . .

Or was it something darker, maybe drink,

a need to fill your veins with heroin;

insanity, a secret or a sin

you wouldn’t whisper to a priest or shrink?

The morning traffic soon will wake you up;

you’ll check there’s nothing missing from your bag;

you’ll bind your blisters with a dirty rag

and later gauge the clinking in your cup.

I see the bright-eyed boy you surely were;

I see the tender infant, newly-born,

the Baby who, before the cross and thorn,

was given gold and frankincense and myrrh.

Unlike the offerings of wiser men,

all that I give you is a cigarette,

the time of day, some change, my mute regret

that begs to differ with the word, Amen.

(first published in the Shit Creek Review, Summer 2007)





********************************************