Unconditional

The teddy bear sat upright, brown hair gone muddy.

Water stains and wet spots turned soft hair taut, prickly.

One eyeball cracked, the other chipped.

One ear torn, the other tangled.

Paws mangled, black spots lined tan rims.

Green spots dotted belly and chest down to fabric.

Arms proudly wrapped around a heart, once pink,

once rounded, once connected by yarn and cotton.

Mouth, still smiling, but torn out on one end,

exposing wool, yellow as mustard.

The teddy bear sat upright, brown hair gone muddy.

To its left, laid a man, sleeping bag splayed out on concrete.

Water stains and wet spots turned blue jeans,

tattered now, gray as storm-torn sky.

A couple pieces of gravel and a few pennies,

held down an otherwise empty jar. Bobbing briefcases,

swooshing peacoats, passed by, eyes pinned to

sidewalk, to screens, to sky.

The man rolled over, opened eyelids caked with crust.

In front of his face was a hand, balled up, no bigger than

a plum. It was attached to a girl, who beamed down at him.

Down on him.

The man jumped back, tarred feet now exposed.

The girl stepped closer and, turned her fist over,

opened it up. On her palm laid a quarter.

She smiled at him as she dropped it into the jar.

It landed with a clink. After swaying from one heel

to another, hands behind her back, she hugged

the teddy bear. The prickly hair tickled her chin.

After a shy wave, she was gone.

The teddy bear sat upright, brown hair gone muddy.

The man by its side. It had been a while since wet spots

came from his eyes, like they were now, and not the rain.

Not the morning dew. Not the hissing sprinklers, waking

him up. Telling him he didn’t belong.