His face was gray and peppered white chaos
with wrinkles crossing underneath
the tangled mess that strangers see,
concealing a few rotting teeth
that leave only a slight lingering odor.

He holds up a cardboard quality plea
for some human decency.
I oblige in a kindness drive by,
no bullets but, a banana, an apple
a gallon of water, and some love.

Hefty lady at the McDonald’s counter
says that she saw a beggar
pull out a huge ***.
Another worker said she saw
a different beggar taking his donations to
the liquor store on the next corner.

I sit back in a bent black rolly chair
while a friend points somewhere out there
at a young brown skinned man
with his pants sagging partly down
and says that he is a ****.

I do not engage in this conversation
because I do not know any thugs,
so how could I observe and classify
that stranger who was just passing by.

White shirt, and black cap
my friend sits back and yells at
his cellphone
because it won’t play
the current football game.
I smile and try to keep
the chuckles inside of me
as he is cursing his expensive
piece of modern convenience.

I watch these people
but I cannot judge them,
because I know they are all fragile humans beings
and I only have enough heart left to love them.

My bifocals reject me.
Reality is not made for focusing.
It is made for massive blurriness.
There is no true form of clarity,
just varying degrees of disparity.

One man cries out to me
about how he is so hungry.
He has a bloated beer belly
that bulges out of his jeans.
He is crying about the purity
of his country, so angry
about the brown Muslim,
and so close to a stereotype.

Another man is merely weary.
Thin and drawn lines run down
wrinkling his withering form.
Each one that is found
is like the rings on a tree
reminding us all how he is aging.
His shirt is torn and holy as the mother Mary.
His calloused hands are as harsh as
the sandpaper he has been wielding.
While other yielding tools
play in digital pleasure palaces
of instant gratification
go on week long vacations,
he is working, fifty-something
going on seventy-two.
What is a Brown Muslim
supposed to do to prove
he is a good man?

Sister says it’s all gods will.
She loves all strangers.
She has faith and says that I should feel
the divine energy flowing through me,
but life is way more confusing
because more of the faithful
pledge their support
to the greedy and hateful

I can’t see through to the truth
The bifocals might have worked for you,
splitting life into two points of view,
but for me they are pointed askew.
Perhaps I need to find trifocals,
so I can focus on more varying perspectives.

missing someone
was missing yourself
Coz
the whole day  
they see through you
they speak through you
they moves through you
a kind of
hot water
filled in your heart..
finally
When you go home
they sleep through you!!