On The Homeless Guy At Jackson And Dearborn

The crowds are flowing eastward, like a stream
Of jackets, backpacks, hoodies, scarves and shoes
And Dunkin Donuts cups exhaling steam
Right past a tenor hawking morning news.
I see a man propped up against a wall,
He hardly moves, I wonder if he's dead,
Then let the thought recede as quarters fall
Compelling him to nod his woolen head.
I'm in a cozy lounge across the street
With sonnetry upon my mind and phone,
While he is on the pavement in receipt
Of food he presently has come to own.
I think he would much rather have a home
Than be the subject of a stinking poem.