Resurrection

Spare Change

I met a man whose beard was the color of ashes

and whose eyes flickered with the light of dying stars.

Clutching his cardboard sign in world-worn hands,

he clicked his teeth against his tongue and smiled

at anyone who allowed their page to slow just a bit,

allowed their curiosity, their good will, their sheer

exhaustion of seeing those with neither a house nor a home

lining the downtown Los Angeles city streets.

"It's pretty damn bleak,

isn't it," He chuckled

as I sat down next to him,

fingering the pennies lining my pockets

and wondering if the city lights

had become the constellations for

the midnight that he had succumbed to.

"Sometimes," he leaned in and whispered,

"I like to light a cigarette and try

to make faces out of the smoke."

he did so, pointing out his mother's

lined face, his grandmother's hands

that, he explained to me, were still

soft as if childhood's milky embrace

had not let go of them yet.

We stared at the smoke for awhile,

until I pulled what money I had

from my coat and begged him

to buy some more cigarettes with them

so that he could see his mother once more.

He laughed a laugh that had seen bloodbaths

And battlefields and the prettiest of deaths,

turned to me and replied, "Honey,

I know you're one of those people

who wishes to save the world.

but don't you pretend that your eyes

haven't turned from universes

to black holes. You need

to save yourself first."