A homeless guy on my Manhattan block
never asked for change
doesn’t have a sign
that tells his story.
His beard and hair
haven't been trimmed nor washed
for quite some time,
He sits inside a torn cardboard box
reading Novoye Russkoe Slovo—
an immigrant newspaper that published
some writings of mine.
Everyday leaving an upscale building
and passing by this smiling fellow
from my homeland,
I bear a thought in mind:
Would it be OK to start
o talk with him
in our native rhyming tongue?