Living the Dream

There is a woman
under the bridge
reading what Louis
has scrawled on bridge abutment:

Love, me!

Was there a comma?
Was this a sobered time when his hands
shook a little less
as he loosened his burdens
to leave this message?

Come, friend, let us go
beneath the arch of his ache
where logging trucks
rattle his bones.
Or, we can go out on to the street,
into the shelters, into broken down homes
and offer them poetry of action
where more than words will fill
grind and grovel of his dearest wish:

Love me!

She feels his bones jingle
underneath covering grace of guardianship:

She is a just a simple unidentified

woman, yes, she is
and he would love her for her sentiment,
her kind thoughts feed him hope
that sustains him one more night
and he reaches for another stone
to write:

Love, you!

Was there a comma in that:  A pause
when he felt care swoosh over him
like a warm spring breeze?  A stir
of Universal care has him rise
to the nurturing ephemeral ecstasy
of knowing there is something more
in this visitation that feels more like love
than that which he gulps as an alternate.

He’d love that.

Tags: Poems //