A
Real Poem 
2011 J. Fernandez Rúa
In this sooty-soup
grit-gray
rain
I need to share
let it all go
and tell you about a real poem
a poem
made of flesh and blood
with far seeing eyes
and a deep
and powerful grace
His
name was Juan Gonzalez
Juan Gonzalez
I met him in the line waiting
for a bowl of soup and piece of bread
and soon
within weeks
we were inseparable
He became a brother to me
where he walked I
walked
where he ate I ate
where he slept I
slept
when I was sick, he nursed me.
when he was sick, I nursed
him.
Sometimes
we even slept under the same
blanket.
At times,
he reminded me of St. Francis
because he loved pigeons too.
Called them
his little
brothers.
Then, just when I was
beginning to see
that this man
- who
walked around with the words of Jesus in his pocket -
could teach me something real
what we expect but
never talk about
happened:
One December
night
he fell asleep on a
bench in Old Man's Park
and never woke up again.
His beautiful heart just
stopped.
The streets had worked him
too hard for too long
and now he was done.
So remember:
his name was Juan Gonzalez
and
he died on a bench
in Old Man's Park.
Not because he was a drunk,
demented or insane.
Not because he has on heroin
or crack.
Not because he did not want
to live.
The truth
is simple: he wanted
what we all want-
to love and be loved in the
peace of his own God.
And something more-
to be useful
to be useful.
Yes, the truth is simple:
he died
because and
only because
like me
maybe like you
he was poor
gritty gray
poor
and except for St. Mary and her few
sisters, here and there.
Tell me
who gives a damn about the
poor anymore?
Stand or kneel
beg or
cry
We're on our own
No one knew that better or
deeper than my brother Juan Gonzalez
and if he was here
right now
he would say this:
Let us not be stereotyped
Let us not be marginalized, cast
aside
Let us not be victimized
Let us not be shamed into
silence.
Whatever your name is
I am you
whatever language or culture
you were born into
I am you
whatever racial group you
belong to
I am you
whether you are man or woman
I am you
whatever faith you hold on to
I am you
whether you're in prison in
Or a detention camp in the
fields of
I am you
whether you're sleeping on a
square of cardboard in
or under a grid in
I am you
I'm in every living pulsating
cell
that hungers for justice
and the right to love.
I am you.
I am you.