He came accompanied
by a tweed briefcase,
worn and weathered
as he
and paused at this mess.
He gathered up
the moldy newspaper,
cups, cigarette butts
and the collapsed
grocery cart.
I could help,
should help him.
But I watched.
He joined me on the bench,
said he hates seeing trash.
He took out a rusted key
to open his Hartmann –
battered Epistles,
a beaten up Hamlet,
and copper coins
lay within the leather trim.
Holding up each coin,
he retold histories and
one-liners.
I had no stories for him.
Still, he presented,
from a faded
compartment,
a rose.
Tiny, pink, perfect.
And gave it to me.
Then our bus came,
he sat somewhere else.
And I sat and gazed
at the beauty
a small seed
to cover me
1/07
1 comment:
Janelle,
This is a really cool poem. I don't know your pilgrim, but I've trod within a few blocks of this intersection.
I especially like the pointed "I had no stories for him." It interrupts me as I read.
This isn't by chance the rose you covered in salt and shot on the hardwood floor, is it?
Cheers!
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