The sun was still cold in your breath,
half-awake still dreaming and we are way past that hour,
just waiting for the first light to break in and steal the dark away like a stereo.
The air was fetid,
reeking of sad news,
swirling about,
but we moseyed along carrying dustpans and brooms,
lugging garbage bags
like we were sanitation Santa, sweeping cigarette butts,
and in them I saw burnt time,
and in them I see mounting bills.
The cold air was doing a number
on us, dumping its oblique
sorrow on our then ragged frame
as we emptied waste baskets.
At times when I utter the word doctor,
your eyes go creamy,
your ears wag,
perhaps I was doing an impression—
an echo
of a forgotten life.
People were still groggy on their cardboard beds, their lips wearing soot as they drooped down on the side of their faces, the night weighed heavy on them.
Unlike most sight that slide through and veer away from despair in the flesh, yours fell on them with flecks of your heart knowing that from them we are dimes apart.
We swept, but your broom was nimble, springing into life in those days. Out of nowhere your hope swung a fist. I always remembered those words like a promise and held on to them like a limb.
“Though the world may forget, don’t dare forget who you are.”
