Blind George by Lynn F Hoffman

old george is blind and he walks north
on passyunk avenue not counting his steps,
just brailing the sidewalk with his feet.
he’s got years in on this job, he hears his foottaps echo
off the glass of mr. martino’s restaurant,
he feels the breezy emptiness
of the city parking lot, the tilt of its driveway.
george doesn’t need your arm, your hand,
your eyes, your sense of being blessed,
but he takes them all anyway
lending you his senses, proferring
the feel of his dry warm hand
turning, flexing a nostril by gary’s deli
purring ‘good dog’ at the sound of
a shaking tag. he has so much to show you,
and there are not so many blocks,
don’t you see?