THE SNOW

THE SNOW

All the street people, bag ladies and bums,
Greet me as an old friend
As they make their way through the snow
With broken teeth, shattered dreams
And hungry souls.

They see in my eyes a pebble that makes a ripple,
A silent pain of the flesh, unspoken yet respected.

And meanwhile my lover waits across the city
With champagne, candlelight, a table set.

Roses in his hands, valentines gleaming in his eyes.

I want to gather these poor homeless, huddled masses
Into my palms like a handful of violets
And carry them across the city to share in the perversion.

But the snow is too deep, and I sink beneath their weight.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2008
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED