I WAS THE ONE THAT WASN’T
It never came as a surprise to me that leftover people
gravitated to each
other – thus the clutches of bums
and cripples the indigent and unwanted the
criminal
and the piker all hanging together at streets’ ends
and grassy parks
along roadways or under abutements –
for a singular language of sameness and a
shared sense
of love and lost-love and bad opportunity and missed
fortunes all
come to one piece as around each other they
shelter and harbor whatever left
there may be and it’s
heard in their words and seen in their eyes how they
each
clamor to share in the solace which each somehow
affords the other – the man
with the one bad eye and
disfigured face meets the one with the withered hand
(and together they enter grace).
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