I have never built

a career, my career

is trashed by the

same garbage

that strewns

the earth’s landscape,

thrown on

the floor of the subway,

in the gritty spring,

where the crocus

pops through

a plastic bag,

while the mother looks

on, with eyes of stone

and the old woman

next to me,

speaks loudly

pointing, “in my

country”,  she

breaks into

English,

sometimes

Spanish,

“we don’t drop

candy into our

children’s hands

and leave trash

on the floor,

in my country”,

while the eyes

of strangers

stare at the child

as

this crinkled, finely

made up woman,

is she going to church?

spews her dissent,

her disgust

at a little child,

and i, complicit, by

being seated next to

her,

try to tell her

in India they

throw trash

out of the train windows,

but today she is

swathed in rage, and

I start to shake

inside,

where the heart

cries

for

mercy.

 

 

 

© s.k. lindeman

This entry was posted on Saturday, April 11th, 2015 at 10:23 pm and is filed under S.K.Lindeman, Spiritual, Uncategorized Poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.