The sun spills white as judgment
across the stone.
There, a man lies
stretched on the pavement,
another body given over
to the boulevard.
The marble burns.
But the poor learn early
to take fire
as one more thing endured.
Men pass.
Their polished shoes
speak first,
and never kindly.
No one bends.
No one kneels to ask
whether breath still labors
in that hollow chest.
Nearby, in the charity of shade,
a dog keeps watch.
He knows the arithmetic of streets:
the cruelty of noon,
the patience of hunger,
the brief mercy of shadow.
O brother of dust and gutter,
quiet witness at the curb,
you and this fallen man
belong to the same republic—
that wide country of the forgotten
whose only law
is endurance.
Beautiful portrayal. I also liked your recent posts: Let the Lamp Remain and Five Dollars of Gas, but the comments option didn’t work for some reason. Such kindness that leaks from your heart onto print, Renee.