…i recognize that green coat. the same one he wore the first time i found him on the ground, and the second, and the third. he’s on the corner of Boylston and Arlington this time. cracked 7/11 cup, his outstretched hand. where is my housing? where is my housing? i look at him. where is my place? i still don’t have an answer. i make the 911 call. they’ll come faster if i don’t say his name. so i don’t say his name. i kneel. pennies, nickels, dimes, no quarters, spilled from his cup, glimmering. harsh, orange streetlight…
7/11 hot dog
one penny at a time
i don’t hear his sirens
B. Dixon is an emerging poet whose writing draws on his study of Zen Buddhism and his work with those experiencing homelessness in Boston. His writing has been printed in the *82 Review, the Frogpond Journal, Right Hand Pointing and the Unbroken Journal, among others. B. Dixon has also contributed articles to the Institute for Meditation and Psychotherapy’s quarterly Cushion & Couch Journal.
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