Wind whispers her lullaby

to the homeless and passerby,

random tissues float on her drift

while the rest of the trash gets sifted

by the immigrant and his son,

seems to know I'm a lucky one,

or blessed or fortunate or hapless as can be,

I must notice what's all around me...

a toothless grin, a grin nonetheless,

pushing her borrowed supermarket "chest"

that's really meant for shopping,

but there's too much to see, look, nodding

is the woman who lost her voice-box

now devoted to feeding cats walking

random & homeless as my neighbors,

I know God thanks her for the favor,

and there's a girl who sleeps in the clinic,

when her clothes can get clean she visits

local high schools to dream about

what she really should be dreaming about, always,

but Angels drift on these streets, I know it in every fiber

of me,

it is They who open the pleats

so that my harried eyes might see

that there is beauty in all who need,

including me...

Copyright Rose Loya 2008