His home is a rag-filled refrigerator box
Propped crookedly on broken sidewalk
Alongside the Boston Common
When I ask him his name
He says, "Just call me 'Least of Your Brothers,'
Then winks conspiratorially
He tugs off mismatched gloves
To jab his raw fingers
Into his tepid cup of Dunkin'
Before gulping its dregs
Coffee trickles through his beard
As he offers a sip from the empty cup
To a passerby
Who squawks in protest
Before bolting to the other side of Tremont Street
The gold-gilded State House dome
Shines down on him
As his gnarled fingers weave gently
Through the yarn hair of a grimy, one-eyed, Raggedy Ann
Propped in his lap
Every so often
He leans forward and kisses the top of the doll's head
With a sweetness that brings tears to my eyes
Seeing people turn their faces away
As they rush past
Pretending not to see him
He waves and grins lopsidedly
Showing three wobbly teeth and chortling,
"Smile! I won't hurt you! Have a nice day!"
I squint through the sunlight
As I watch him from the nearest corner
I think I see
A halo around his head.
Lorri Ventura is a retired special education administrator. She lives in Massachusetts and her work has been featured in the poetry anthologies Songs to the Sun and Poetry Is a Mountain.
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