Introducing Joe Smith Poem by John M. FitzGerald

He is the man you saw sitting at the bus stop,
His elbows on his knees,
Arms like pillars propping up his noggin,
Hands in a V, with his chin in the angle,
One palm against each cheek.
He wants you to think he doesn’t notice you looking,
So his head tilts slightly downward, but his stare
Rolls up from behind wire glasses, a perfect weasel.

When others come to wait, they don’t sit,
Despite two empty places either side him.
An instinctual air floats about.
And though slight of build, even lumberjacks steer clear,
As of the obvious bearer of some contagious disease.
He breeds distrust, like a stray dog tricked once too often,
Kicked by someone feigning a handout,
Too hungry not to try.