Pioneer Square: Spare Change

When the man in orange polyester pants,

thongs in November, red beard and crazy hair,

asked me for money to buy a drink,

swearing he wouldn't dream of buying breakfast,

my hand sifted the change like a bad idea.

Pity is so sudden, bleary,

it loves the pocket it dives into

as much as the coins sliding off the edge

of the hand. He smiled and let smoke

unfurl from his lips, his green mermaid flexed

under a rolled-up sleeve.

He wanted nothing from me, but money.

Thinking we are all earnest oddities

nobody really wants, I gave him my change.

His laugh afterwards rippled, a scornful glee.

We walked our opposite ways, clumsily,

struggling up some imaginary hill.

Generosity loves the hand outstretched,

the poor, poor heart knocking back

the careless hours like shots of booze.

Strange doorways looked on. Alleys reeked

of human waste, dead dead ends.

My shadow walked through valleys of plate-glass

as if reading a long invisible scroll.

Giving small change exacts a change, also small.