Peaked green woolen cap

clamped over spilling shaggy ringlets,

goat-eyed, crude lips puckered

amid the curled fire of his beard,

he heaves into reed pipes,

while his Jack Russell dances

on stiff hind legs, tongue lolling.

A third of the soot-grimed sidewalk

they occupy, hindering the flow of foot

traffic in a grudging claim for charity.

Always the beggar’s thick lower half is covered

by a woolen blanket. Always he snarls,

this hairy obstacle we dodge

in our hurry to work or school.

Homeward bound, I find he still pipes tunes:

the sough of silver water rippling among ferns and moss.

And as I drop my euro into his woven pretzel

basket with its goat’s head handle,

the tight blanket over his form

shows a hint of cloven hoof,

of an ancient god of goatish ways and lust.

And I feel the loss of his kind diminish me

as I hurry down the pavement for a dinging tram

that calls our herd home. In my ear

his tunes hum of a time before a tram’s

electric hunger, a time when we with nature

created a quieter world around us,

a time before our lives was machined.