The Gypsy

stupidly modeled after Edward Thomas and written in my head on the subway:

The weekend before Christmas no one was anywhere.
The streets were filled with foreigners who seemed doomed to stare
at sparkling windows for all eternity. I began to hunch
my shoulders forwards, pocket my hands and skip lunch
from time to time. letting my bagged face grow pale
and bony and my shoulders point, growing frail
and squaring the corners of my worn black coat. Coffee
alone remained sweet and safe to me.
Amidst a crowd united in wonder I felt alien, new,
a stranger to the city of my heart. "Do you
have the time?" I'd ask, trying to break the weave
that smothered like a scarf on a summer's eve;
but they just shook their heads and picked up speed.
"Help me," cried a voice, "I only need
a few more bucks to go home for the holiday."
"All I've got is a twenty, but here--you must weigh
less than I do. Take my Sicilian slice."
"God bless you." I wondered what God was so nice
as to leave him alone in the New York cold
and hoped not to be so calculating when I'm old.
I wondered if he really had a family to journey home to,
and if I should have left him a buck or two.
Where was my giving spirit? Him and his kin
have often stopped the cold from seeping in
with friendly smiles and music that pierces through
the thickest of scarves, regardless of whether you
enjoy it. That night the snow blocked out for me
the faces of the city; all I could see
was the old man's smile, the peace on his very lips.
"God bless you." And now the tips
of ink-pens alone will thank him for the kindly look
that turned my icy eyes into running brooks
whose marks stayed on my face all night,
invisible in the city's frozen light.