The Candy Man Can

Note: From my poetry thesis, "Mementos of a Hostile City."


They call the homeless man at the corner of Ollie’s the Candy Man and there he stands with one arm out, one hand cupped. Sometimes he shuffles down the street and stands at the opposite corner, a guitar case in his hand. But he never plays any music, not even in the subways.

One time his right hand clutched laces ending in a pair of dirty red-and-gray sneakers; on his feet, he wore black-and-gray ones. Another time he wore burgundy-black plaid pants. I used to be afraid of the Candyman, of the wild, penetrating look in his eyes and the outstretched hand swiveling at passerbys, like a revolving mannequin.

Then there was the orange soda I bought him once, when I asked what he wanted. And then the sandwich I bought him – what was it? ham, salami, provolone, tomato, letteuce, and mayonnaise on a roll – and the bottle of water he didn’t want, because he only drank soda. And I remember being offended; not so much because he didn’t say thank you but because he asked for what he wanted.

The other night, as I passed him, he said: this sure has been a cruel night.


Written: circa Spring 2004