From "Low Life" by Luc Sante

"Night is the corridor of history -- not the history of famous people or great events, but that of the marginal, the ignored, the suppressed, the unacknowledged; the history of vice, of error, of confusion, of fear, of want; the history of intoxication, of vainglory, of delusion, of dissipation, of delirium. It strips off the city’s veneer of progress and modernity and civilization and reveals the wilderness. . . . In the streets at night, everything kept hidden comes forth, everyone is subject to the rules of chance, everyone is potentially both murderer and victim, everyone is afraid, just as anyone who sets his or her mind to it can inspire fear in others." Luc Sante, Low Life

Upon the Death of Maya Angelou

Two days ago I picked a peony
from my garden --
a descendent of the peonies
that graced my grandmother’s yard
forty years ago.
I laid this peony upon my grandparent’s grave,
and stood, pondering my mortality
for just a moment,
with thanks for a beautiful heritage.

The peonies are still bright this morning
and I am still thankful,
despite the sadness of the day.
Maya left us a beautiful heritage -
a riotous garden of colors
seen through momentary tears
and smiles of remembrance.

Emergency

A homeless woman groans,
inching her wheelchair
toward nowhere in particular.
It's eleven-eighteen at night.
I look at the Emergency Room workers.
They look at nobody,
afraid of the condemnation and hopelessness --
--the  bitterness -- brewing in that room of sufferers.
The woman groans some more, yet mildly.
breaking the concentration of the rest of us
who stare at workers not looking up.
Those gentle groans come from deep within.

The groaner knows.
There is no place for her.
She is not sick enough for a hospital
She is too alive for the morgue.
She is too needy to stay with friends
She is too unwell for a shelter.
There is no shelter.
There are no friends.
No hospital bed, no nurse, no doctor.
No tidy little apartment
where she could water a plant
drink tea and induce purring.
And so she groans. 
She can do nothing else.

A Shadow

A wisp, a shadow, stood pawing through a garbage can at 3rd and James late last night. He muttered to himself and walked away.

“Hey, buddy. BUDDY.” He looked at me with empty eyes. “You hungry? I got a pizza for you.”

I opened the hatch on my car. The shadow’s eyes grew wide, staring at 37 pizzas, destined for other homeless friends. I picked up a deep dish pizza box and handed it to him. For a moment he was coherent, substantial, alive. He thanked me, and turned away.

Human beings should not have to eat from garbage cans in our community.

When you give to Nightwatch, you reaffirm the dignity and worth of every human being who haunts our urban streets. You sustain them with food, offer them shelter. You grant hope and love to folks who have not experienced hope or love in a very long time, if at all.