As we speak

We are aware, even passively,
of senseless acts of kindness,
else what is an artist or poet for --
yet I know I do not embrace
all that I observe and touch
with deserved attention,
or appreciation.

This morning …
near a bus stop bustle,
maneuvers a frail man of years,
suffering a bicycle slalomly
through impatient indifference.
He forages cans, as best he can
with scant fingers,
perhaps frozen off …
until the vehicle disappears
(squeak, rattle, squeak)
beneath burgeoning plastic bags --
a scant living, but work just the same.

I have occasionally contributed
a backseat tossed container,
not as charity -- but payment for service,
(Rattle, bang, squeak)
receiving a bowing, toothless grin
and chatter in a tongue unknown.

This day is different --
(aren’t they all - squeak)
as an 'upscale' lady approaches,
removes from her purse
a tiny spouted can,
and oils the wheels and chain
of his livelihood.

The crowd applauds in laughter,
appreciative not of the gift --
but of the silence.

Not I -- but I catch her eye,
and she smiles inwardly;
for I saw her real kindness --

as she stooped,
she placed her hand over his,
giving thanks
that he is alive.

faucon