Dear Homeless

I held a smile for you today
at the corner of Park and Araphahoe,
but you hung your head
and couldn't receive it.

I held your hand last night
while your ten-year-old clutched
at the other hand and stared
and muttered while you sobbed
to the brown-robed chaplain,
begging for the mercy of God
from an absent, faceless company chief.

I held you down last week,
with the crunch of tissue paper and squeak of vinyl,
on an exam-room table.
You screamed,
kicking out with your tiny feet,
as a vaccination needle punched
into your vastus lateralis,
first of six syringes.
Twenty minutes later, I awarded you
a sticker.

I held my breath last month
as the rancid stench of you seeped
through my office, your food-stained shirt
and greasy hair all rumpled, and you sighed,
spent, because the teenage son
of your common-law wife
had once again blackened and blued the face
of a crack-dealing
child outside his fifth rehab center.

I held my tears last fall,
while you snarled and called
the family next door "fucking Mexicans"
with your curly-haired toddler looking on.
Did you think his big blue eyes could save you
from our punishment?
I held
you accountable two hours later. You shoved
your stuff into garbage bags,
then yanked him up by his shoulder
and crooned,
"Guess we're sleeping on a park bench tonight,
baby."

I wonder,
My Lord and my love,
Are you holding me?