Translated From Croatian by Mario Frömml
The city park benches of Erie are
the homes of the homeless.
A wheelchair-bound guy, a vet,
scrounges a cigarette off me.
He then keeps thanking and
blessing me, while cruising with
a glimpse of scrutiny, of
the cold, open seas.
For two bucks, the vet’s
selling a toy; his
tattoos are way
down to his waistline.
I hand him a tenner. He’s
staring at me, not believing his
own eyes, which are brewing
a storm at their brims.
The gap between to-haves and
have-nots is the water trail, left
behind the power boat on Lake
Erie, as I am penning this poem.
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