Truly I heard the gentle brogue tonight,
a soft, genteel, lilt in his voice.
He could sell snow to eskimos, would sell, and
yet I heard the uncertainty there, the
yearning for his mother’s word-caress.

So alone, he wanted to be loved.
Long ago, as I saw the homeless, there
were no Irish there, and I crossed the
street away.
Somehow I didn’t see Irish there,
but my eyes were welded, and I saw
What I would see.

How many Germans walk in here,
my eyes worn, patched now, but acute?
On the southside of Milwaukee, Germans
camp, and come in from the cold, heads high still,
these blond, grey gods, not wanting to be seen here.
Are there more homeless Germans than when
I was blind?

I saw so clearly when I was blind.
The weld on my eyes kept out the light polution
and I saw what I would see.
So I came into the Light and
saw what I could see, whe I came in,
and saw the sights not so sharp as what
I saw when I was blind.

12-31-11