It was the solstice, a light snow
dotted and streaked the sidewalk,
each slick spot a curb, crack, stumbling block, a sudden
abyss, arms open to embrace the weary and unwary.
That night the unhoused died all over town.
Our compassion failed to keep them warm.
We felt badly but our blessings bore them gently
into the catacombs of Potter’s Field.
One lay on the steps of Holy Trinity,
the usual heap of rags, a face
mottled like a Michelangelo marble.
(We saw him, walking home from Bistro Citron).
The train went on with one less passenger,
his ticket punched by the icy fingers of just-born winter.
Carl Sherman has written about science, medicine, the mind, the brain, and the human condition for national magazines, newspapers, and websites. He has published four books. His poetry has appeared in Corona: an Anthology of Poems (Walt Whitman Birthplace Association. 2020). He lives in New York City.
