Ebony skin hangs on
thin glass bones.
As the boys dance
I marvel that ankles
don’t shatter.
Can I have one
copper penny is
the homeless man’s
serenade?
And I hum louder,
walking by.
If I see poverty’s eyes
in the man…
or the glass boys
or the millions of
starving dots…
then I am stopped
by crumbs of light.
The eyes, like
talking lights
tell me about my
ragged poor self