Among the dormant orange trees
Along the frontage road
A graceful mockingbird, perched low,
Begins his strident song.
Below, on the ground, a faded tent
Is flapping in the breeze
While tattered clothes dry on a branch
Beneath the Valley heat.
Across the street under a bridge
One man holds up a sign:
WILL WORK FOR FOOD it reads in print
The last word underlined.
Most cars don’t stop to render aid,
His words are quickly ignored:
Another homeless, broken being
Surviving on his own.
I’ve seen him there most afternoons
The sun still burning flesh
I drive up fast and pray for green
So that he doesn’t ask.
There’s no reproach as I drive by
His face betrays no emotion
But guilt begins to gnaw at me
Like some venomous potion.
The month of May finally leaves
And June’s fire burns bright
I still avoid looking at him
When he’s within my sight.
And then one day the tent is gone
No more man with the sign
I feel relieved, but angry, too
For treating him so unkind.
Julieta Corpus
6/2010
P.S. unfortunately …all this is based on truth 
This is a comment concerning your poem about the homeless man. I once gave a man a dollar and then shortly after saw him exiting a store with a cheap bottle of wine. After that, I have not been inclined to be generous. However, I should not judge everyone based on this experience. It’s very sad when someone ends up homeless. We have all failed! We need to do better!