Humility

That man that stands in front of us, With his combed over hair, wearing Ancient shoes and a semi vacant Stare, who’s card does not work And oh, sort of knows that there Is some currency somewhere, Between his trousers and luck, A remote pocket, the only Believer’s face was his own, As always, he proved us wrong, Placing his few things in a doubled up Obsolete, vintage matching brown Carrier bag, turning slowly, His short steps were impaired, Limping away as we watched, With impatience, in alignment Until, the deeper truths Unleased a catharsis of empathy and despair, not a word was said of that significant moment we shared.