I’m not that guy (poem)

The one with no shirt on in early April pushing the baby carriage down Main Street while dangling a cigarette from the corner of his mouth

The one who helps the old lady when her brown bag rips and two oranges and a can of beans fall into the street

The one who makes a joke about the puff pastries that fails to amuse the boss’s wife at the holiday office party

I’m not that guy

I’m not the one you call in the middle of the night when your pipes burst or who waits by the baggage claim with the bouquet of helium balloons

I’m not the one at the public library searching between the couch pillows for spare change

I’m not the one with the triple ply cashmere tied around his neck who pops out of his convertible and into that gallery in Quogue

I’m not that guy, the one who passes the wicker basket at Christmas midnight mass

I’m not him, so get it straight for once, look at me, on my back, on the pavement in the middle of the street, face to the sky, as lost as some lucky penny waiting to be picked up.