“I’d Like to Think”
I’d like to think I am kind to all
I meet in every second season, selfless
Possibly; a distant reason alike to those who, though helpless
And veiled from hope still pick up the phone and call;
They must know that I’m enough to offer nothing of myself in words.
These angels only think they’re weak; I hear them when they read
The lines they’ve rehearsed like nursery rhymes and furiously feed
The mouths of meters of the rush hour, tokens only, fleeing spirits, birds,
forgotten souls encircling, kneading darkest manna in the night.
The ego rarely sees the joys of dawn; not prayer but breakfast comes
Between because their instincts make them fodder for the daily run
To close the open windows tight, and block the calling sun. Purity of light
Without, they prefer the fire within; the eyes are screened, by choice, preferring stations in a Conga line to eternity that knows no fear nor flight.