St. Paul Street Seasonal (Mangan)
St. Paul Street Seasonal, by Kathy Mangan (1950-)
Not the crocuses, sporadic
purple and yellow stars in row house
yards, not the ice-cream wrappers
stuck to the sidewalks,
but the syringe —
someone’s discarded joy —
nestled in the green
new shoots of our ivy
trumpets the Baltimore spring.
Dusks, the halfway house
spills its wounded, who shuffle
and spout soliloquies
while their keepers shepherd them
towards the deli for sugared coffee
and crullers. The sex-chatter
of the university students, sprung
at midnight from the library
and formulas and anatomy, wafts
through our second-story screen,
spicing our sleep. In the slant
of 10am sun, the scarecrow man —
all folded slats and angles — now daily
stations his wheelchair outside
the newsstand and opens his hand
like a time-lapse tulip
for my quarter, the palm
of his fingerless glove so grimy
it shines.