by John Balaban

    Hadn't seen Eddie for some time，

    wheeling his chair through traffic，

    skinny legs in shorts， T-shirted，

    down at the corner off Dixie Highway，

    lifting his Coke cup to the drivers

    backed up， bumper¹ to bumper， at the light.

    Sometimes he slept on the concrete bench

    up from Joe's News. Sometimes police

    would haul him in and he said he didn't mind

    because he got three squares and sometimes

    a doctor would look at his legs， paralyzed，

    he said， since the cop in New York shot him

    when he tried to steal a car. Sad story，

    of the kind we've learned to live with.

    One rainy day he looked so bad， legs

    ballooned， ankles to calves²， clothes soaked，

    I shoved a $20 in his cup. But， like I said，

    I hadn't seen him around so yesterday

    I stopped and asked this other panhandler，

    Where's Eddie？ "Dead，" he said. Slammed

    by a truck running the light， crushed

    into his wheelchair. Dead， months ago.

    My wife says he's better off dead，

    but I don't know. Behind his smudged glasses

    his eyes were clever. He had a goofy smile

    but his patter was sharp. His legs were a mess

    and he had to be lonely. But spending days

    in the bright fanfare³ of traffic and

    those nights on his bench， with the moon

    huge in the palm trees， the highway quiet，

    some good dreams must have come to him.

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