Tent City

Who are we to wonder
why he holds a sign
or stare obnoxiously
at last year’s overcoat

reluctantly passing by,
afraid of making eye contact
with the cold, hard truth.

The sun rotates, sets
and rises again
without showing us an answer
why clouds follow some
and separate for others

leaving promises dangling
in midnight winds
and June petals falling
like fireflies into light.

I learned moons ago
that it isn’t all roses,
but I keep trying

to make them pretty;
these verses
that call my name
at 2:00 am
waking grief

to spill in sweet sentences,

leaving letters under my pillow
for the next time I can’t sleep.



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