The homeless man was not in his hollyhock bed today,

nor the man who occupies the most touristed sidewalk

with his dirty beanbag and knife–

one a child the other day very nearly picked up

after spying the unlocked and shining blade on a ledge,

fortunately stopped by a parent–

and who–the following day–had shed his own blood

in great crimson splotches a couple yards long across the old concrete

from a wound unknown where

yet occupied, upright, space beneath the overhang

fully animated..

It’s a lively, though often drugged, bunch with angles of unpredictable dangerousness,

their slow stories unfolding in glimpses when I pass, with generous berth,

in dry, bright mornings.

The pain, chaos and lynchings of the plaza play out sideways,

overlay and blink between,

plastic carrying tourists who buy what those on the street

have nowhere to store.

History continues through current actors unconsciously until

resolution finds its brilliant way through the cracks.