Sometimes, when I look in the mirror
I see my brother’s face,
I quiver with recognition.
As time takes me,
so it takes my eyes, I reason,
a trick of the mind.
Sometimes, when I’m working with my hands
I see the hardened hands of my sister
who slaved to keep her family together.
then I give my head a shake.
Not real, I defend.
Sometimes, when I look at my feet
I see the worn shoes of the homeless,
the refugees in search of a place.
I remember the long, hard road
and compassion forms in my throat.
I wish I could see that way more often.
Copyright © Phil Capitano | Year Posted 2019
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