Back rested against post,
the figure guards the median –
poised with cardboard sign,
a simple plea for help.
Positions himself amid
gridlocked targets – usually,
I look away, disquieted,
but today I do not, wondering
what I could possibly give
this man that would lift him
from his plight –
surely others have tried,
and, yet, here he is
day after day
the same –
and
I am struck
with realization –
that we are not
all that different
he and I
both trapped in unhealthy
patterns, having adopted
personas that once served –
but now weigh heavily
with the stench of permanence
Does he not know it’s all
an illusion – a game we play
wherein we are the pawn?
I don’t know it either –
turn away, defeated.
(Frank is hosting at dVerse tonight and the jive is frustration and heartbreak.)
One Woman's Quest 