Downtown, there’s this intersection

where the same man would stand

and sell newspapers every day,

smiling.

 

He would wave at me every afternoon,

and I would wave back.

Then, his smile would be big enough

to expose his yellow piano-key mouth.

 

Whenever I had cash,

I’d roll down my window for him.

He’d hustle over, grinning ear to ear,

and he’d greet me with enthusiasm.

 

He’d give me little updates,

like how he had found a house,

or how he’d found a job,

and he’d hand me a paper.

 

He’d say, “God bless!”

and he’d run off, beaming.

Sometimes, he’d tell me I was his favorite customer.

I think he told everyone that.

 

The last paper I bought from him,

he wrote, in pencil, on the front,

“Please help make America great again.”

I didn’t understand, but I nodded anyway.

 

He died two weeks later,

living in a low-end apartment,

unable to afford proper healthcare,

age forty-nine.

 

I wish we could have sat down sometime.

I wish I could understand how he,

once homeless and always in poverty

could cast his vote as he did.

 

What did his America look like?

Did it look out for people like him?

What kind of change did he want?

What kind of change was he promised?

 

More than anything,

I wish I could understand how he,

who sold papers on the sidewalk,

could look always look so happy.

 

People put flowers on his corner.

Someone decorated the fence.

He was in the next week’s paper,

smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Photo credit to Will Jordan