Sunday, May 06, 2007


The guy on the noisy motorcycle

keeps a pack of letters

from his grandmother

beside his historic baseball cards.

The woman at the grocery store

who swirls her words around

like sharp knives

whispered at her son’s bedside for weeks

while he slowly passed away at age seven.

The man with mean dogs

and maps of tattoos on his arms

cares for a friend with cancer

six days a week.

Hateful words

have sorrow inside them.

The clouds of storms

contain sweet air and light.

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