Just another drop in the bucket
From majestic skyscrapers to broken shanties
A land now uncomfortable for even a Hoffa
Peanuts alive and well on Capitol Hill
A land of broken records and windows
Safety is a Springfield automatic
Lakes become land-locked sewers
Where hippies run and children romp.
© 1975, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
When some people talk about safety
They bring up personal accountability
Or speak when only theirs is in doubt.
This makes me remember
The time I lived on Maxwell
Hungry as I quested for work.
A scrounger with discernment
I feasted on the curb with my buddies
On cold chicken wings and some stale Ripple.
© 1974, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue
One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here”
With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom
The bus to city’s center arrives
Twenty people now converge on one point
Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill
Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board
Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.”
There goes today’s shoeshine
A playful driver, a screeching halt
A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter
In a seat below, two children sit
They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
© 1974, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
We passed him along Clark Street,
The family out for an evening treat.
He sat huddled against a wall
Bracing against the chill of fall.
In a ragged suit, with one lame foot,
He was covered in grime and soot.
When I paused to look, eyes fixed,
My stomach began to twitch.
“Hey, what’s wrong with that man?
The sign says, ‘I need a hand.’”
“Now, don’t you get too near.
It’s nothing to worry about, dear.”
“But, it’s damp and cold today.
We can’t just walk away!”
“Okay, Kenny here take a dime.
But, quick, we’ve got little time.”
As I rushed back, coin in hand,
A smile broke out on the man.
Not enough, and only a start,
This enkindled a very young heart.
© 1972, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved. (1960)
