When you live on the street.
You get appreciation, for the little things.
Waving and smiling at a child.
And a wave and a smile, comes back.

I don’t live here.
I don’t live, here.

I don’t belong here.

Where’s my mother?
Where’s my father?
Where’s my brother?
Where’s my lover?
Where’s my heart?
Where’s my soul?

Where are you?
In this story?
What have you written, To change it?

Who are you?
And what are you doing?
To fix us?

Where is the empathy?

Where is the fish?
Where is the fly on the fish?
Where is the line that caught the fish?
Where is my bowl that serves the fish?
Where are my fingers that struggle, to tie the line?
Where is the right that is mine?

Where are you?
Where is your line?
Where is your time?

Serve me the fish!

I bend my arm at the elbow.
Of course, you can bend your arm too.
Maybe I should bend my leg at the knee?
For a man to kneel, is a thing to see.
But what am I doing, on my hands and knees?
What’s in the dust?
Scraped up by the fingers of Man.
Silkily, falling, back to the ground?

I could repeat this my whole life.
Sifting the same sand.

But my fingers need other jobs.
Other dreams.

So crawl on through, the sand of men.
A million tiny crystals, setting the sun on fire.
Because we are all here together.
Burning up in the atmosphere.