Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
the boy moves in short shuffling steps.
in the tiny arc of his shoulders,
a resigned weariness
reflecting years of searching the pavement
with his eyes.
if you could convince him to lift his head,
you would be drawn to those eyes,
pale as winter moss.
in their hollowness
would be revealed a sense of life
that has yet to be convinced
of his rightful place in it.
as evening spreads across the street,
hard-edged forms soften.
the boy could easily miss the small matchbox in the gutter.
but he doesn't.
passing through a pale yellow slice of of light,
he sees its rectangular outline.
the cluster of pale red matchheads.
shuffling to the edge of the curb,
he crouches down
low to the cobbled roadway,
stretches out one small arm
and wraps his thin grey fingers around the cardboard prism.
the boy stands up slowly,
as he pushes the box inside his shirt
alongside the piece of bread,
the half-eaten apple,
the crumpled paper bag,
and the small green glass bottle.
it’s almost time to find a place to sleep for the night.