Dwelling

by Robert Farnsworth

In Paris that morning a mendicant
had unfurled a three by five rug

on the sidewalk beside a planter,
and sat there before it, upon his

leather valise as on a hassock.
A bowl for alms, a book to read,

a shallow tin of water for the calm,
obedient spaniel.  Habitual —

I wondered — calculated, this
orderly encampment?  It was not

until later that bright afternoon,
returning from my aimless walk,

that some principles of civilization
clarified.  The rug was empty,

the valise still there, the alms bowl
partly full of coins and notes,

but the dog and master were gone,
not far perhaps, but nowhere

I could see — apparently to take
a stroll, a leak, to fetch a bite.

Who knew?  Crowds strode past
that rug, that small inviolable zone.

Keystone of an imperceptible arch.