ENCOUNTER ON FIFTH AVENUE

The Christmas season comes early in Manhattan.
The crowds that gather in Rockefeller Plaza
are wet and cold,
much less festive
than the plastic and tinsel street decorations.
The street vendors in front of St. Patrick's
ply their trade of
warmed pretzels and roasted chestnuts.
An old man huddles in the doorway of the locked church.

It is the season of compassion,
a time of anticipated pity.
The man shivering at the cathedral door
sees me coming, and in a moment
my path is blocked by outstretched hands.

"Hey, Man, you got a dollar to spare for some food?
C’mon, Man, you can afford it.
I gotta have something' to eat...
I'm starving, Man, and I'm freezin’ out here."

I looked into his swollen and bleary eyes,
this victim of society's amnesia.
But all I could see was deceit,
and wondered if he had just emerged from his stupor
because he had felt the vibrations of a
possible benefactor.

The irony did not escape me--
the doorway of a church sheltered
this man who preyed on the pray-ers.
Maybe they should call this "St. Patsy's"
--the patron saint of the easy mark,
the gullible visitor to the Big Apple,
the sacrificial lamb that comes to be fleeced.

I looked again into his red and rheumy eyes,
and for a brief moment
wondered who he was
and what his hopes had been
before he came to the Street of the Forgotten Man.
I saw the rags and broken shoes,
the frayed cloth that gloved his hand
but not his fingers.
His face was weathered and stained
with the grime of the city,
But it was the stench that erected
the most formidable barrier
and made me take a step back.

"C'mon, Man, I really need it.
Help me, please!"

Is this the Christ who comes
in the guise of other men
to test our compassion."
Can I call this thing, "Brother,"
who steals my time and
demands my money?
Is this an angel in tatters,
an emissary of God
who walks the way of the forsaken
waiting to be redeemed by humanity?

I gave him five more than he asked for
and wished him well.
I walked away quickly, muttering something
about the "grace of God"
and feeling good about myself.

It was a little later that I saw the man again.
I watched as he came out of the liquor store
and tore the bag from a bottle of J&B.
He saw me, and in his embarrassment turned
to walk across the street.
He turned too quickly and knocked the bottle
against a fender of a truck.
"This is my blood poured out for you
for the redemption of sin."

I watched as his emotions went rapidly
from shock to despair.
"My God, why have you forsaken me?"

I had no pity, for God was just.
Then I saw the tears in his eyes and knew
that he had lost for a time
his only way of coping
with the justice of God.


--Harry L. Serio
1989