In Chicago， it is snowing softly

    and a man has just done his wash for the week.

    He steps into the twilight of early evening，

    carrying a wrinkled shopping bag

    full of neatly folded clothes，

    and， for a moment， enjoys

    the feel of warm laundry and crinkled paper，

    flannellike against his gloveless hands.

    There's a Rembrandt glow on his face，

    a triangle of orange in the hollow of his cheek

    as a last flash of sunset

    blazes the storefronts and lit windows of the street.

    He is Asian， Thai or Vietnamese，

    and very skinny， dressed as one of the poor

    in rumpled suit pants and a plaid mackinaw，

    dingy and too large.

    He negotiates the slick of ice

    on the sidewalk by his car，

    opens the Fairlane's back door，

    leans to place the laundry in，

    and turns， for an instant，

    toward the flurry of footsteps

    and cries of pedestrians

    as a boy——that's all he was——

    backs from the corner package store

    shooting a pistol， firing it，

    once， at the dumbfounded man

    who falls forward，

    grabbing at his chest.

    A few sounds escape from his mouth，

    a babbling no one understands

    as people surround him

    bewildered at his speech.

    The noises he makes are nothing to them.

    The boy has gone， lost

    in the light array of foot traffic

    dappling the snow with fresh prints.

    Tonight， I read about Descartes'

    grand courage to doubt everything

    except his own miraculous existence

    and I feel so distinct

    from the wounded man lying on the concrete

    I am ashamed

    Let the night sky cover him as he dies.

    Let the weaver girl cross the bridge of heaven

    and take up his cold hands.