Feeding the needy

Our hands open to teeth.
Sandals and shorts,
sores ooze Coke and biscuits.
I watch them bake skin in the sun
and smoke picnic endlessly.
Where will they go when the rain comes?
In churches and under tables?
Their minds chatter tomatoes and beer cans and then they laugh.
And laugh.
Crazy laughs.
As if God came and sat beside them and whispered
in their ear “the dog broke the dishes”.
I am not one of them
in my perfect blue Victorian house
with the irises blooming
out front.
But I feel their hunger.
I know what it’s like to want gravy,
but settle for empty bowls
and lick the air for crumbs.
I understand the urgency that comes with time.
The press and flow of promises unrealized.
The stench of almost and the lure of not quite.
The brokenness of dreams.
Yes, I understand.

Holding Hands With The Blind

It is like that now,
holding hands with the blind,
trying to maneuver through the dark tunnels
of fire,
as they stumble
and fall.
I can not
save
them.
The sugar pulses in their veins
like pancakes,
their bright eyes
fading
with disease.