He lurched towards me
on a quiet street.
“Sir, sir,” he said,
“a red rose for your sweetheart.”
He looked as though
he lived nowhere,
This man with wild hair
and eyes deep
as the Cumberland Mine.
His face was twisted
like an Iroquois mask
that blessed through suffering
a tormented world,
and on his lips a smile
as though we were God’s spies.

“For me? I asked.
“For your sweetheart,” he replied,
“And she will kiss you for it.”
“The price?” I wondered.
“A caring heart,” he said.
“You are kind,” I said,
and he bowed
a courtly bow.
Giving me the rose
He said again,
“For your sweetheart,”
and then he left,
a man without a name
a spirit-being
looking for a home.