Here comes the routine.
The sweeping of the floors
to make ready for the new
customers.
I collect abandoned pennies
in my pockets,
ignore a dirty table of guys
laughing at the girl who stoops
to pick up
such petty change.
Cause here in America,
even in our local poverty
people have no use
for things as small,
and worthless
as pennies.
I trace their voices
to new coins
knowing they're amused-
probably think I bow
because they tell me to,
but I don't mind so much-
knowing I do it
in spite of them.
There on the floor of change,
glittering with ciggeratte ash,
dotted with
wadded up straw wrappers,
unused napkins,
conglomerates of fuzz,
and you.
Sunflower seed
shells for wings,
crushed.
A delicate beauty,
like love,
so fragile, yet strong enough
to lift
something of far greater weight.
Intricate and unique,
beautiful and masterfully designed,
a tiny miracle,
given over to the staleness
of sad certainty.
No one noticed,
no one cared,
your beauty dying
at their thoughtless feet,
to good to look down.
Because here on earth,
despite the connectedness
of all things,
the precious imperminance of life,
people have no use
for something as small
as a moth,
nor neighbors
poor enough to need
their discarded pennies. |
Submission Name: Sunflower Seed Wings
