Oiled morning like a machine of Greek Steam and Brass,
a beauty it is,
to be called to live,
and any time.
When living sun still rises over grey hollow an inertial warmth over my sleeping family and I,
like a heartbeat of our home, breathing.
The drives through the city seem motivated, the pavement burnished ebon tarnished by potholes, the effluvium of passers by with no respect nor the need for any in their homeland,
a woman carrying what appears to be all that she possesses, pink bag with wheels, the wheels so tiny it broke my heart,
i watch them roll, the pink so cheap i wanted to throw what little money i had at her, beg her forgiveness for never ever being where she was, praying but thankful, embarrassed for being thankful,
you see i loved and hated her, she was like me, but the me only neglect and lack of love would have brought about.
Digital pilgrim, toothless , black tank top but a face like all others human, filled with spirit, none different or faded than yours only blind by our hate, is she so varnished.
I drove home thinking, what who, how is she?
And I had done nothing.