I am standing here for you
Can you reach my hand
Do you even want too?
I have calloused over the nights,
rigid in these hands of leather
and the dirt under my nails is
the lasting testament at the end
of my shift.
This hollowed out tunnel
borrows no mercy to a man
trapped in the exchange as
the lights flicker in the
approach of another train
somewhere under the streets
of Manhattan.
My church is strong on
Sunday morning and the offering
cannot end at the bottom
of the basket.
You are frantic in your eyes,
quiet to those moving around you
waiting as if you were the cat’s prey.
The air is thick with pride
and the sea swells around you.
You are wearing more money
in a month to a super in a
jacket and shoes.
The stress is looming hard
on you as you close your eyes
in desperation,
you see yourself huddled
close to the skyline at the
top of fifth avenue locked
away safely in your office to
the sounds of in discreet banking
deals that keep the lady lit in the
harbor.
I am not the fire in the torch,
I am not the beacon
in a storm, or the warm in
a taxi on a rainy night.
I am the token in your hand
that can set you free.
Accept into this act of mercy
and take the token from my hand.
And I can go home to sleep,
and you can keep the lady lit
in the harbor...
You have found what lurks
in the bottom of an empty
basket on Wednesday morning.