Gary Laidlow

He was, of course, an ex-con.
San Quentin. Long ago.
Ex means ex, he vowed,
and he found a wife like
an alpine stream with
two kids who he adored.
Then came a run of
bad luck so consistent
it was uncanny.
They lived all four in
a Ford station wagon.

I met him in a cafe
where he was spooning
a cup of cold coffee.
Outside from the windshield
peered desperate swiftflowing
eyes. He told me
he just got out of the hospital
and might have to go back
so nobody will hire him but
he'll work for peanuts and he
knows what to do
if I'll just give him
seventy-five dollars
for a bus to Seattle where
his tools are in storage.

I say, gently, "No."
He smiles, shakes
his head, understanding
that I understand. But
even though it was a con,
looking back, I wish
I'd said
Yes.

He had better luck with
churches giving him money
to attend a funeral
in Vancouver, B. C.
Fifty churches, fifty funerals
until he was arrested for living
in a dirty car
in a shopping center parking lot
and was charged with
child abuse for feeding
from the dumpster
behind the Safeway
old milk
to the hungry baby.

from Son of a Poet