blech Poems and Poetry

As I rode my bike down Lake Street
on a warm summer day
I caught the gaze of a panhandler
holding a neatly printed sign in his hand

He was not unshaven or scowling,
there was no surrender in his posture -
in fact, he was wearing a clean shirt
and pleated trousers

Uncharacteristically, as I rode past him
he gave me a wink and a grin
as if we were drinking together, at Martini Blu,
ogling the same woman

But there was nothing I wanted
to relinquish - no quarters for the bus
or a stiff drink, no smiles of compassion
that would make this poem