In Seattle from a hotel windowsill
one can speculate the faults of those
who roam the wasteland below,
only they know
but the darkened alleyway will tell
their story just fine.
There’s a homeless woman who looks down-
right ready to cry when she receives leftovers
and I sit there and ******* hate myself
because I can’t live up to my own expectations.
Seattle is just the excuse really.
There’s a little girl playing on the stairs
who falls but is not defeated
she says it just takes some practice
and in that moment I love her.
Part of me wants to say hold up,
how did you become so smart;
and part of me wants to hold up
a knife to my chest, just to keep something close.
I know I wouldn’t use it that way
I’m a ******* coward and maybe
that’s what brought me here in the first place.
Not to Seattle, but to the windowsill,
where I speculate the faults of those
who call this wasteland home.