Perhaps his name is Three Dollar Bill

The Emissary
To the man on Pleasant Street

You pace
the same stretch
of sidewalk
every morning,

purposefully, in one direction,
then turning abruptly
to traverse the same piece
of asphalt

back to an invisible starting point,
ovalling this way
over and over,
rain or shine,
in every season.

Your arms flail
as if conducting some
mysterious orchestra,

both hands
occasionally popping
peace symbols.

How can any mere human
maintain such a pace?

Is there a secret wellspring
of energy bubbling up
from some crack
in the hard ground
you’ve claimed as your own?

Your eyes hide
behind sunglasses,
with no regard to weather,

as if you can perceive
sun where there is
none.

An unkempt jungle
of beard and mustache
obscures more of your face,

with just a long
sunburned nose
and two crescents
of tanned upper cheek
to show a weathered countenance
to an indifferent world.

And then
there are the too-long pants,
always bell bottoms,
perhaps the same pair
day after month
after year.

You seem a refugee
from Woodstock,
and I wonder
what called you
to this life
of endless pace.

Is it drugs,
or mental illness,
or the too-common
marriage of the two?

Do you know any refuge,
where and when
do you sleep,
and who once called you son?

There are days, man,
when I see those
peace symbols popping
from your expressive hands,

and I think
you could be a messenger
come to remind us—
the busy ones,
the ones who hide our crazy
behind full schedules
and rapt consumerism—

that we’re born for more,
that walk-dancing on a sidewalk
can’t mean less

than strapping ourselves into cars
to rush to sit
behind screens
so we can buy
more than we’ll ever need.

Perhaps it could
very well
mean more.

–Melinda Coppola

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