Monday morning commuters Wrapped in layers Of wool and polyester From China, Spill off the train At Grand Central Like grains of rice From a busted bag, Rushing everywhere And nowhere...
Can you scan me through Sir? She queried, a flicker Of hope in her weary eyes I'm trying to get to The homeless shelter.
Was it a lie Or a ruse?
Was this brown-skinned woman With a mole on her cheek And a flicker of hope In her weary eyes, An artist?
Wary eyes trained to detect The giver within And among a bustling throng Work-bound, Bearing finite degrees of discretion In their wallets and purses...
Her pleading brush chose me today As I ran up the stairs Strides fueled by Maze...
Spirit stirred by Saint Nick...
I succumb, Granting her wish At the turnstile...
As a few men in blue Huddled nearby Cradling morning brews From Dunkin...