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.
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