Spray painted on the back of signs
indicating construction on
Waverly Place, down the block
from Washington Square Park,

Say “I love you,”

where yesterday a host of humanity
carried other kinds of signs
protesting unfairness, brutality
in a far-away place.

This morning Mary and I walk
past visible despair on park
benches, men and women farther
down than “down and out” conveys.

Amid tourists taking selfies
in the park (even us oldies
but goodies), as NYU students
hurry to and from their last

classes of the year, say goodbye
to a professor, I think about
the blue pouches with rescue
drugs given to us
on the street by kind souls

hoping to help folks like those
on the bench, or the ones
slumped in subway entrances
and doorways without doormen

like the ones who kindly open
the brass-and-glass doors
to us every time we return
to the hotel.

And I read aloud, Say “I love you,”
as I pass the signs, think it
as passers-by pass by,
to the man who makes

my poke bowl for take-away
lunch, whisper it as I walk
behind the benches ribboning
the park,

Say “I love you,”

to—as a kind man once said—
the least these, my brethren,
my brothers and sisters,
weeping with those who weep.